first nature is love
second, sabotage
I've been trying to rewire for years now
I think there was a time I was after it
the drama
somewhere in my early teens
where television glamorized
depression
somewhere between Prozac Nation and Bipolar disorder as A Brilliant Madness
but all the way back into early childhood
there I stood
slamming tiny fists against the keys of a piano
thinking the dissonance was somewhat melodic
the clashing
the minor keys
the Baptist's damning's to hell
was this child's dream come true
the drama
from the very beginning
made my world spin
and now
that I am older
do I seek peace and serenity
a plausible faith
an exit
from the incessant spiral that drama led me down
dressed in scarlet-mouthed poetry
lusty, dark paintings
baths with the lights off, a joint between my finger tips
journal off to the side
Sylvia Plath would have high-fived me if she were still alive
some days I thought if I developed an addiction
wouldn't that justify the internal chaos I felt
and of course I tried
because at the time
it was all so cold and blurred
that I couldn't bear to come to terms with the constant stab of grey, ache of black
the existential reads on the steps of a law firm
paired with my glimmer of hope as a small bird landed within the enormity of an oak tree
Camus' eloquence in talk of suicide
the absurdity
the questioning
the slowness of the clouds moving through the endless sky...

the joke behind the anger
is as you lie next to me, asleep
breathing
the sound is so melodic to me
that my fury dies down
and pitifully takes the form of hopeless listening.

when you love
no love can match it..

but then there are nights like tonight
where our mouths and hands don't meet
you yawn as I am speaking
collapse into bed
and leave me to my head-talk

it is then that I wonder.

I don't want to fill the gaps. I want to be the bigger content. the mass. the brain. the axis.

wake up, put Cat Power on, let her fill all the places that the solitude did not. the all-consuming things I felt merely days ago are left floating around the barren space in my head. I'm convinced they're walking heavy-footed, sulking around my bed room. if they looked like anything it would be wilted balloons spending their last few hours of breath eying the window in hopes of escape.

A light breeze seeped in through the small opening of my window and I marveled a bit as I realized that I had finally shut off my incessant brain-chatter long enough to appreciate the sound of rustling wind. In moments like these I feel as if I've been spying on silence, like I've caught nature at the peak of an orgasm..
There's a lamp I've placed in the corner on the floor because the light it provides is much too stark placed bedside.. but with it now moved into the corner there is an uneven light that falls over everything and has since divided one side of the room in light and the other side in darkness.
I find lately that I am reveling in silence though it is more often than not interrupted by the sound of shrill voices or tiny dogs yapping until they are quieted by their owners. I've had vivid dreams lately that assure me that something is changing and rapidly, unfortunately it doesn't seem to be my financial state, rather perhaps an emotional revelation of sorts..I'm not sure yet, I'm still waiting..
I am in severe love and what I mean exactly by that.. is it's the kind of love where all of your life-shaping experiences that (perhaps) had a hand in making you a pain in the ass are suddenly less relevant and the focus of your life becomes shoveling all of your shit-sodden memories out of lovers lane and restoring it instead with gratitude and a needle-pricking cognizance that proves exhausting but will ultimately become rewarding over time. It's the new-found commitment in your head you make that the soul of this person is so significantly shattering to all you've known prior to it's exhibition that you will try and compromise all hardheadedness and self-induced neuroses to make it work..so here's to making it work! to silence and rustling-wind and to tomorrow in the unknown.

I've been hardwired for disappointment but what is stranger, still, is that the disappointment becomes far less disappointing than what the fear of disappointment actually conjures up en route from head to combative tongue.

so, in essence, my fear is far more powerful than the worst-case-scenario and often times, the two go hand in hand. self-fulfilled-prophesying. I do not want to take part in you any longer. I will not.

the urge to write lingers somewhere here. I stumble around for it, desperately groping at emotions where I think I've found them. and when it occurs to me that I have found something, I try like hell to hold on long enough that I may produce something, anything...

but it is fleeting and its memory gone quicker than it came.

And so,I find often, that my hands are clenched tight..but holding onto nothing.