first time of new fresh week. large swirling coffee, silky, pumpkin chocolate chip muffin and a genuine lack of protein, though I need more of it to carry myself with any notable strength up those 150+ step staircase or the 20th street blues uphill, or the tree line fractured tear of a 45th street viaduct, good god damn, the options for height removal are multitude and nothing seems right because I do not feel right, this is all strange within because I can't seem to say anything concrete or real or sudden.
I am rolling my ankle on the floor. I am nervous
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On approaching 23.
Well, anxiety swells up in me and rattles around like a big wave full of broken up boats crashing against the grey matter rocks of my internal shoreline. I do not know how to acknowledge the existence of myself on this earth for as long as I've had. Countless billions of humans, and countless billions more dogs, have died at a younger age than I. What do I do with my time and knowledge and experiences... they are puzzle pieces and I am a huge, hastily painted blue backdrop that we all automatically assume is the sky, the cardboard cut out people and their fear of box cutters, their fear of flames and aging, the decrepit little angst-ridden youth inside me is by now fairly well aged, a top shelf wine, a dying celebrity... The 16-year-aged boy within me has become an old man. Time is a vortex and it swallows potential relationships and sticks you with the sand and grit of the current fling until both sanded down so smooth that personality is floating sediment where there once was rocks.
What the hell am I. This is personality dissociative fugues states without navigable maps, all crossed out where the old roads once ran and into the woods where the forests are moody and don't want to talk and the tension rods in the air snap with electricity, with signal flow and the vacuum of carpet space is a girlfriend sick in bed, a cat sick in bed, a grandmother sick in bed, a mind of battlefield sergeant, some scars unhealed and tobacco smoke thick in the gravestone car and we looked out on the scene of the accident where the blood was still stained warm between the cracks, the guitar pick, the earring, the sad stifled silence, the lack of talking when it was time to go, we just gravitated to the tahoe and left wordless, and left wordless.
I have died a thousand times and had a thousand rebirths. I am not immune to self imposed prisms of pain. I thought I would outgrow the worst parts of me but I have found my quick trigger frustration to dominate my days in some form with red flashing light colors of ambulances traveling toward your funeral because god gave them an order to resuscitate. Oh flashing lights of whiz by time and the pain of being wrenched forward into an unforgiving future when all present is so nice and physically decent, and the future... next future... 24 and the suffering in friday harbor when the ocean drains and I need some time alone, please, thank you, no thanks I don't need a coffee. I'll take a tea. Cold shower. I'll take a new house and a palm walk and a broadway broadside and an editing internship and god almighty I'll take a place in queue with the other greats in purgatory who die in an abstraction when they do not wake up to realize the wide open space between them and their goal. me and my goals. no obstruction. just self. just ridiculous fallacious emotions that can turn a rose into a burn victim.
-----
On approaching 23.
Well, anxiety swells up in me and rattles around like a big wave full of broken up boats crashing against the grey matter rocks of my internal shoreline. I do not know how to acknowledge the existence of myself on this earth for as long as I've had. Countless billions of humans, and countless billions more dogs, have died at a younger age than I. What do I do with my time and knowledge and experiences... they are puzzle pieces and I am a huge, hastily painted blue backdrop that we all automatically assume is the sky, the cardboard cut out people and their fear of box cutters, their fear of flames and aging, the decrepit little angst-ridden youth inside me is by now fairly well aged, a top shelf wine, a dying celebrity... The 16-year-aged boy within me has become an old man. Time is a vortex and it swallows potential relationships and sticks you with the sand and grit of the current fling until both sanded down so smooth that personality is floating sediment where there once was rocks.
What the hell am I. This is personality dissociative fugues states without navigable maps, all crossed out where the old roads once ran and into the woods where the forests are moody and don't want to talk and the tension rods in the air snap with electricity, with signal flow and the vacuum of carpet space is a girlfriend sick in bed, a cat sick in bed, a grandmother sick in bed, a mind of battlefield sergeant, some scars unhealed and tobacco smoke thick in the gravestone car and we looked out on the scene of the accident where the blood was still stained warm between the cracks, the guitar pick, the earring, the sad stifled silence, the lack of talking when it was time to go, we just gravitated to the tahoe and left wordless, and left wordless.
I have died a thousand times and had a thousand rebirths. I am not immune to self imposed prisms of pain. I thought I would outgrow the worst parts of me but I have found my quick trigger frustration to dominate my days in some form with red flashing light colors of ambulances traveling toward your funeral because god gave them an order to resuscitate. Oh flashing lights of whiz by time and the pain of being wrenched forward into an unforgiving future when all present is so nice and physically decent, and the future... next future... 24 and the suffering in friday harbor when the ocean drains and I need some time alone, please, thank you, no thanks I don't need a coffee. I'll take a tea. Cold shower. I'll take a new house and a palm walk and a broadway broadside and an editing internship and god almighty I'll take a place in queue with the other greats in purgatory who die in an abstraction when they do not wake up to realize the wide open space between them and their goal. me and my goals. no obstruction. just self. just ridiculous fallacious emotions that can turn a rose into a burn victim.
