There is this feeling, I don’t really know how it would be described. It’s that lump in the back of your throat that just hurts. Like, you aren’t quite sure why you feel like you might cry, but all of the sudden. There is the lump.
Sometimes, I look around, at my family, my friends, my choices, and I get the lump. I think that addressing the lump is about addressing how I got here. Ever look around and think, how did I get here?
We make choices, good or bad or indifferent and we must stand by the choices we make. OR we can pretend they don’t exist, but they do and always will. We can make additions to our choices, or we can try to alter what we have done but the point is, we have already made the choices.
The lump I believe, is the choices. We can’t get rid of the choices, ergo, the lump stays. I have made many choices I don’t agree with, but I wouldn’t want to get rid of them. Can you make a list of your choices, a full list, and stare at it and get past the lump?
Go. Ahead. And. Try.
Sometimes, Sometimes, Sometimes,
I am drowning, drowning, drowning,
I fall, deeper, deeper, deeper.
I suffocate. I cannot breathe. I am trapped.
Trapped, Trapped, Trapped.
So how, do I get free?
I. Free. Myself.
I’ll be giving up my phone as a bit of a social expirement/cleansing. I will be using a simple phone to communicate and work very hard on in person conversation. It’s time to become part of the world, the living breathing world. I speak so much about living life, but a good portion of it, is through my phone screen. It’s time to go out and be one with the universe in a psychical and mental sense. While it may be an adjustment, it will be a relief. Gone will be the days of waking up to the latest gossip, drama or insight. Truth is, I don’t care. I love my friends, my family, but their life isn’t mine. Time to go live in the present.
Tonight I told the truth. The whole truth and it was terrifying. I feel like a new person, a new and imperfectly perfect person. I said all the ugly nasty things floating around my head and it’s wonderful. I feel great. I am happy and content. No, everything is not perfect and nothing will ever go back to what it was, but that’s okay. The world won’t end and neither will I. It’s time to start my next chapter. No more talking about it, more doing it. The tree will keep blossoming, the wind will keep blowing and I will keep living. The world is mine and now I’ll seize it. In the honest way.
Charles Bukowski once said, “Real loneliness is not necessarily limited to when you are alone.” Damn, if that is not the most honest thing I have ever heard then what is? Self worth by definition, is the value of oneself. How much are we worth? How much are YOU worth? And who, is willing to pay that price. How many times have I found myself in a bed, car, pool…? Far too close to another and far too distant from myself. The ultimate high is acknowledging your own beauty, not a stranger speaking from adrenaline. The beauty of the individual is the fact that we can clean the slate. Not one other soul can dictate how we move on from this moment. This moment RIGHT HERE. When we walk away from our thoughts, our dark lonely thoughts, which direction do we take? Who the FUCK honestly knows? All I know is, for each stranger who praises me, I no longer want to praise myself. Remember this baby, self praise is what counts. The only person we live with till we die, is the precious fiend staring back in the mirror. So love, don’t love, fuck or don’t fuck. But whatever actions that are taken; the actions are YOURS.
Listen to the Weight of the Worth
Do you think about me?
Do you watch me trace your old rollerblade routes, like a lifeline?
I skate your routes in hopes you will appear. I feel you here, in the wicked whip of the palm trees, in the angry crash of the waves. I smell you in the sea soaked air.
How do I hold onto a ghost?
I wish I could hold your hand again, but I’ll settle for the coarse grains of sand creating indents in my palm.
Like messages from above.
There is a girl I used to know, but she vanished in a plume of ashen cigarette smoke. I loved this girl, she was funny and loving and happy. I guess I didn’t know much about her in the end. What i do know, is that she is gone but I will find her. Her vanishing act took place about a year ago, she was replaced with a twisted doppelganger. The only resemblance was bitten down fingernails and dark eyebrows. All other attributes had morphed into an altogether darker being. Knotted hair, dead eyes and hollow cheekbones. A stick figure full of jagged edges replaced the girl I once knew. She may never come back, but I loathe this version. The scent of tobacco and dishonesty linger in every room she travels through. Her presence, once welcomed now garners wary and worried looks and hushed tones.
What happened to her? the demons won. Sometimes, early in the morning, when I watch her swipe mascara onto her jet black eyelashes I catch a glimpse of who she used to be. Though she disappears as quickly as she came and I wonder how I can get her back. This mystery girl reminds me strongly of a chameleon, turning whatever hue the situation dictates. Among her crowd, she is wild, magnetic, yet almost dangerous. Gray smoke curls around each lie she tells, because there is no truth. I see her other times in certain classes, letting the old self shine through. The literary genius-ready with each answer. God I want her back. I follow her as closely as possible, cringing and admiring her brass exchanges. When did she start hating herself so much?
She goes home and channels her old self as best as possible; though it is a bit like wearing too small clothes. The feeling is off. She makes nice with the family she used to adore. Now, they are just more strangers to be civil with. I watch as she interacts with the mother she used to call her friend. Each sentence they utter is a cautionary volley, seeing which will be set off first. The mother utterly wary of this daughter 2.0, limits all freedoms in an attempt to find the girl she once knew. The brother who used to admire her, has lost all respect and sadly wonders where his sister went. He shakes his head, disgusted. I watch this girl-she does not care.
She is angry. Why? Why is she so angry? I can feel her blood boiling, I can feel the control slipping away. Who is she? why is she so lost. Anger is best channeled through treachery and bodily exchanges. The urge to kill, becomes the urge to fuck. Gone are the days of young boys and fruitless crushes. This is a time of charm and debauchery. She becomes a seducer. A serpent stopping at nothing. For whom she wants, she has. God, who is she? What is she? A whore? Femme Fatale? A victim? None, she is the girl I once knew.
…And he stood alone in a sea of souls. For not one man nor creature could move the stony silence.
From the highest heights to the depths of the sea-the shout was lost.
For who does listen to the shriek of the lost soul? Not I, not you, not we together.
For the veil of aloneness shrouds all.
The dark is a place for indiscretion. In the dark we are simply animals out for carnal pleasure. Hunting, Judging,Preying. For in the dark we are emboldened. No longer do we creep around pleasure. Dive into ecstasy. Explore one another, no longer two but one. For where else can synchronization be so rich? Hushed moans, sweat, shivers. Skin to skin, attraction to reaction. The dark is a place for indiscretion.
The whole world spins on one axis, yet we each have our own personal axis. Whether that may be another person, a job, or a hobby; if that were to vanish, then what? See that’s the million dollar question, there is no “then what”! I was so scared to let go of my stories, my fictional life. I was scared that when I let them go, I would no longer have any sort of identity. In the end, I guess my life revolved around my story telling. The truth of it is, I am just your run of the mill kid trying to figure out what the fuck to do. I was so scared of being ordinary, of blending in, of getting swept away in the normalcy of daily life. Yet, here is the deal: It is not a crime to belong. I worked so hard to make myself an outsider but when push came to shove, I just wanted to be on the inside. I guess the point is, without my stories, my fictional life, my world still keeps spinning.