You Think I Didn’t See That.

Trimethyl_Borate-flame

Despite what some may think, and maybe what some have intimated, I am not jealous of others or bitter about the fact that I am 31 and single.

That word, “single” has such an ominous tone like the toll of a bell or a big read scarlet letter “S” that besmirches the chest of my hoodie. How dare I live past a certain age and forsake yet another cultural requirement that I be attached to someone in order to be more like everyone else. In Christian circles it’s almost a sin for someone to be as old as I and not be married or close to it. Hell, most of my friends are already entangled in family and children and all of that garbage because it fell into their lap at an earlier age.

Good for them. At that age it didn’t suit me. At this age, I’m not sure it suits me. I’m honestly not sure what suits me right now except the solitude I inflict upon myself because the world has become too loud for me to think in. It doesn’t help that, for almost the last two years I have felt my voice has disappeared. It is even less helpful that, one by one, I can chop names off what was already a short list of people I could be around or talk to for more than a moment without getting bored or actually having that feeling like I had something to say. Did I always do this and I’m just now noticing?

That seems to be the story now. Things are the same but maybe not; maybe they’re more magnified now that the lithium has all but worked it’s way out of my body. There’s a chance I’m more cognizant of my proclivities and less inclined to act on what some would call loneliness out of an even stronger desire to be left alone. Yes, I will admit that when I see people getting into relationships a part of me is so very angry. The heat of my body ignites barium but not for the reasons you would think. I’m not jealous because someone else is in a relationship and here I sit, tapping out my emotions to an empty room, listening to the cars go down Leavenworth Street.

I’m jealous because I’m alone. I don’t mean now, in this moment because, yes, of course, I am alone right now because it’s almost 10pm on a Sunday night. Even though tomorrow’s a holiday, I wouldn’t be out and about. I feel less sociable on Sundays than I do any other. This kind of alone is the outside-looking-in feeling I’ve lived with my entire life and only recently have given it a name. I have had girlfriends but never really been on a date, per se. The one date I did go on was just the one date and then she ghosted me. I don’t blame her. I was so wound up and nervous I probably seemed certifiably insane.

No one shares this brain and no understands this heart I have been given. My kindness regarding others has been met with intractable hostility. My belief that people should be treated like people has been met with the plague of murderous violence. I am of the belief that, as a society, we have outgrown, nay, evolved past Lex Talianis but my fellow human beings seem hell-bent (quite literally) on telling me I’m wrong. I am the wartime man who, at peace, makes war with himself. I have seen the depths of hell and never the heights of heaven and if you asked me if I have ever been happy I’d more than likely tell you, “No, my heart doesn’t beat that way.”

If I can’t understand myself most of the time I certainly don’t expect anyone else to. My existence bears no explanation for itself other than a drive to be something better than I was yesterday and, even at that, I’ve been failing at that a lot lately.

So, am I really jealous that you’ve got a girlfriend? No, not really. I’m more pissed off at myself after being reminded that I haven’t figured out where I belong on this ball of anxiety we call a planet. Or maybe that’s my anxiety and I think the rest of the world feels it. I am reminded of everything I ever had in the palm of my hands and had it stripped away because it didn’t belong to me, I wasn’t meant to have it, or it felt too human and I pushed it aside. I don’t have the answer to any of this. I just know these are just the triggers to a lot of bad memories and a big tent, old emotion revival where I twist and turn against myself, doubled over, and turned inside out with the ache I remember and can’t seem to shake.

It’s been as many years as I can count on one hand and still my heart impales itself on a dagger for every reminder that the world moves for most people but stays stationary in my own little world because I just can’t breathe or speak normally around people anymore. It’s like I’m always fighting my urge to act. I would rather be the real me and be miserable than fake a smile any day of the week. So, if I’m angry you’ll know I’m fucking angry and I’ll use the language I deem fit because words only have the meaning you give them. That’s the beauty of speaking symbolic language. If I’m depressed, I’m depressed and I’ll do through my day quietly in my head but I’ll be damned if I let you shame me for it.

Just like I’ll be damned if I let you shame me for being me. I don’t give a fuck about you and your relationships. I just wish people could be more real and putting smaller distances between what they say and they do. Don’t come down on me because of my heart for the truth.

The truth is I don’t want to have to rely on someone else for happiness or sadness or any other emotion I may desire out of life. I have the brain, I have the neurons, I have the neurotransmitters or the drugs that inhibit their reuptake. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t understand how relationships are supposed to work down to the everyday dynamics of a couple because most of what I see from others seems pointless or stupid. Truthfully, I think the same thing about a lot in life. However, this does not preclude what I presume is instinct or conditioning or something else that I can’t rationalize or intellectualize (which I have to; I can’t understand it any other way). It boils down to a simple fact and I will admit it:

There is a large part of me who desires relationship.

But that’s all I know.

Now Playing:
Propagandhi
“Lotus Gait”
Failed States

I have this recurring nightmare:
flailing pigeon, her broken feet
frozen solid to the freezing pavement.
I turn away as if I do not see.
I have this childhood memory
of my old man screaming from the driver’s seat
to turn away from an unfolding horror,
but he could not undo what I had seen.
We never spoke of it again.
Two more hapless citizens of

the new post-traumatic stress worldwide disorder.
A stockholm syndrome fifth estate,
desperate to batten down the mounting horrors
and shuffle on in a global lotus gait.

Content to marinate in the plasma glow of the
home entertainment prisons we
commune before like dime-store shrines.
Are these but votive lives?
It’s a strangled, twisted truss
that shores-up each of us.
Anything to dull the pain
of a splintered lotus gait.

As for me a filigree of psychic police tape
tends to cordon-off the darker scenes.
But the wandering mind stumbles through it
and relives them all eventually.

Pries open wide your eyes and shines a painful light
on the guilt, the fear, the shame.
The courage never came
from the plasma glow of the
home entertainment prisons we
cling to like dime-store shrines.
Are these but votive lives?
Conservative at heart.
A conformist from the start.
A stockholm syndrome fifth estate.
A staggering lotus gait.
It’s a strangled, twisted truss
that shores-up each of us.
Anything to dull the pain
of a self-inflicted, crippling lotus gait.

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Parallels of Elmer’s Glue and Mortar

BrickLayer

Look and you will find.
What a lie.
Look for what you want
and you will find
an orchestrated assembly
of pinball machine parts
and others’ broken hearts
held together by the spit and dirt
They were dug up from.

Why is it so difficult for me to breathe?
Like when people think they’ve found the answer
they’re, somehow speaking for me,
Shuddering shoulder shrugs is all I see
when I look ’em through crosshair-covered pupils
And ask ’em what I look like
As one individual brain among these
All looking the bullet in the face
And me with my shattered teeth grin
from the collision of life
the smile I left behind with the shards of my teeth.

Sometimes the pieces are easy to find
And maybe broken things can be put on the mend
Maybe they can.

It doesn’t take reaching out far and wide
to open spaces, new places, new faces
with indecipherable tongues, or maybe just
patterns spit out thick enough to mortar
the bricks they’ve kicked against their own existence.
It doesn’t take a building collapse
to rip the breath from my lungs
It doesn’t take a ton of bricks to crush my chest
and shatter me into bone-dust and confetti

So, when I say self discovery is not always
a long distance journey
I mean it.
All it takes is a laser-guided strike to a vulnerability
to render you to so many pieces and fragments
And being reassembled by the turning hands of time.
And when that time is up, when the alarm
richter scales the walls
I hold my breath to see if the glue and pieces still hold
Sometimes it shakes loose pieces I forgot existed,
Struggling to find that one spot in the expanse
of my existence where it fits,
or doesn’t,
and I look at burning it down and tossing it to the wind
Over my right shoulder
Like it’s bad luck to spill yourself all over the floor
by accident or by someone else’s agency

But I don’t believe in luck
I believe I rebuilt myself from the ground up
but I am still busted up
The ceramic laced with gold
to make my imperfections glow.

This is the Facebook post that triggered this piece. I seem to only be able to write in the moment if I can write at all.

FBScreenshotPieces

Between Black&White

A man walks down the street,
watching his steps cross the
cracks in the concrete, all the while
missing the rhythm of life,
“normal life” they say, by
just a fifth of a second and
he thinks he knows things
but sometimes he’s never quiet
sure.
Well, there are times when
he clings to the vines that
hold him firm to the things
that never falter or fade.
But even then, sometimes,
he can feel his hands start to
slip.
And though he grinds his teeth
and, jawclenched, he tries
to hold on tight…
he falls.
But he continues to walk,
right in front of left, eyes
never failing to glare only at
the cracked pavement and debris
his feet walk over.
Looking neither left nor right
just onward.

And it was on this path
that he ran into me
head first into my chest as I was
busy eyeing a woman with
candy apple red hair and a black dress…
The impact was enough to
rattle my balance and in
compensating and preventing a fall
I spilled my cup of coffee down the
gutter to my left.
Anger swept over me like forest fire
madness, but I saw the kid’s eyes,
cold blue antarctica, carved out of ice,
surrounded by white, cracked red and
accented by the bags under his eyes.
They told of a great weight that sat
invisible on his hunched shoulders
I took a breath

Who are you, kid?
“Empathy and apathy, a great dichotomy.
Seeker of grace and failure of faith.”
He spoke to my shoes
What’s is this weight you seem to
carry?
“If ever there was a heart that had
grown used to breaking, I’ve got it.
With every passing moment of life,
I am the griefcarrier, the crossbearer,
the sympathy in a world where hope
is the only thing that keeps me going
sometimes. Sometimes…”
He looked me in the eyes which were blue
but in the next moment an emerald green.
” I am the envy of all the things you have
but can never be because I’m too foolish
and too hard-hearted to follow through.
I am the poison you should have drank
and the antidote for what ails you
because you, you think you’ve got it all
figured out and your rational thinking
will set you free…”
His eyes drained of color, turned to stone
and I went cold.
“But your hope for freedom are the very
chains that bind you”
Shocked, I shuddered and wondered
aloud one final question.

How is it that you know so much about me?
He laughed, sick and desperate.
“Close your eyes and shake that question
from your head.
You are so entangled in your own web of
self-absorption that you don’t even recognize your own–”
Reflection.
I was face to face with a man with sullen eyes
I raised my hand and he mimicked my actions
perfectly.
An office building, mirrored windows,
and me,
locked eye-to-eye, face to face.
Antarctica… emerald…
and now just shades of grey
between black and white.