work it inside out and reversed viscera overtaking petulant glances from individuals i am totally unconcerned with. the girls are pricks and the men are bitches there is no haunting illusion of romance in this bizarro universe. all hail the cult of apersonality, the shining plasticine idol of normality. man fuck that shit. I may just be a twitching lump of organic mass but at least i get to do the fuck i want. at least a part of the time. part of time, part of space is mine. but not quite how i imagined it for fancy always outcharms reality. one hundred percent of the time. never fails, the warmth and comfort of memory beckons with more allure than the emptiness of the present
the tiny coffinlike structure with fabric walls illuminated with a warm inner glow. a sanctum for creation and at the same time respite from ones own self inflicted trauma due to the inherently abusive nature of creation. For the act of creation is coupled the reaction of destruction, most often this energy is diverted onto the self. In the form of self mutilation, physical or emotional or spiritual, the deprivation of sleep, of creative outlets, the cauterization of comradery. to sever oneself from the individuals in which one finds solace. this is the ugly face that hides behind the gentle deer mask of creation. the double edged sword that cuts through our reality and lets shine chaotic ephemeral light that serves only to depress, to encumber , to burden.
however one looks at it, the outcome is the same. the return is always to equilibrium, to quiet solitary confinement in the same stagnant locations. to shake things up is a ruse so incredibly shallow in its misgivings. always return to start.
ambiguous vague. a disconcerting disconnection from what i thought to be reality, caused by a questioning of said reality, resulting in eternal exile from the eden that is childhood ignorance. now im left in the icy polar desert that is adulthood, far from the warm womblike blankets and lanterns and books and imagined beings.
now the enemy is loneliness, a demon that springs from within and attacks without notice.
an enemy that attacks with slow precision, sinking at a rate not visible to the human eye.
once its over, its over, goddamnit and thats when the real problems start.
however much you try, the colors don't ever change. the forms and shapes may shift or even disappear with enough concentration but no amount of focus or chemistry can change the colors.
and those colors get so tiring even when it seems like all the world is in love with them.
they are stagnant, rich and unhealthy and sit in my stomach like sweet goo off a pastry.
girls are like the tapioca pearls in a drink ,
terrible black lumps of gooey shit that is lumped into perfectly good milky tea but they stick to the roof of your mouth and suck directly on there like a tentacle and once the boys have had a try they never stop loving that goddamnt bubble tea and you never get a word in fucking edgewise.
but thats(beside)the edge of the point
what more is there to say really but that that that that whatever there may be to occupy the mind in those weedling hours of the night when sleep seems impossible but to remain concious will inevitably lead to a shitty morning pissed away with worthless midmorning dreams of supermarkets and shopping malls and boys that stare with longing faces from cars that beep horns and you roll your eyes because you aren't that kind of girl anyway and can i get a fucking
real thing for once
instead of those woozy postmidnight aorta heartbeat thoughts. those thoughts originate from that cavity, that venal cavity, all too often, when those hours could be spent with such occupation could be diverted to much more efficient timeworthy matters
matters worth any sum of time are currently at a loss to me. nothing seems quite up to snuff, lackluster a thin layer of dust has accumulated over everything i love and its losing its glistening value all over again. i suppose i should send for the prozac cleaning lady. 1 800 catharsis
once a month she arrives in a cute lil bottle to clean up the mess ive made oh dear
what have you done oh what is this sopping wet thing? have you gotten into the beat poetry again gaia?!? well i told you dystopian literature and art are simply vile for your happiness. its like rat poison, really!
why don't you try some of this pie and this lovely comic book i picked up for you.
that will brighten you right up, distract you from that faggotry, that blasted faggotry that kerouac plants in your mind. of course you fear that all men are gay! look at what you are reading young lady why i ought to just take you back to the hospital and let those doctors give you a good talking to where you can't hide behind those pretty letter grades and number digits, ninety-ninth percentiles, ill be damned if THEY care.
there they see right through that you know they see the despondence and the inner monster, right there you keep it in between your kidneys. dont think i dont know where you keep it. i've just been waiting for the right time to tell you i know.
