there are ghosts everywhere lately filtering through my footsteps eyelids my days are coated in them, suffocating in their suffering. the past is seeping into the present thinner than air pulled inside my lungs this ashy cough that won’t break.
mouths as wounds words bleeding out arteries opened. all conversations are suicides in progress.
we are killing ourselves faster and faster saying less and less as we bleed ourselves dry. draining all we have all we are to express something that is beyond words. beyond understanding.
our wasted self sacrifice. played out in greetings and farewells. saying goodbye has never felt so weighted down with truth.
and what is significant is fleeting. i spit out silent blood clots press my lips together
I am–my mind–and it’s trapped in this imperfect person like a prison, solitary confinement inside my skull. I am alone. If I could just get out, if I could free my mind from my body, I imagine that’s what heaven would be for those nonbelievers. We don’t need a God to forgive us our sins, we just need a release. From social conventions, a lifetime of mistreatments leading to psychoses and personality disorders inflicted upon our bodies and suffered by our minds.
I want to cut open my head, hold my brain in my hands and then rip it into pieces.
destroy yourself. change your energy, become unrecognizable to yourself. be a shadow without a body, be a stain in the air. turn yourself and your experiences inside out - observe the world by digesting it. be a mole in the ground. be wet and warm and dry and cold. gain power by destroying something beautiful.
These limp and useless days are where I currently stretch my limbs and like a prophet try and see into the future. Past this limbo I know the rest of my life is beckoning with one formidable crooked finger, bone separated from flesh, still not fully formed, waiting to be completed by the present.
But in the meantime, in this current state, I am trying not to waste away. I never last too long at anything, because it all takes too long and I just want change, I want difference, uncertainty, excitement. I never want to hear that inevitable static that eventually begins to drone in your ear, growing louder and louder and louder, until maybe one day you can’t stand it anymore and you stand up from your desk and walk out the front door, and you keep walking until you don’t know your own name. And then maybe you’ll sit down on a rock somewhere at the side of an empty highway, face into the sun, eyes closed in the sublime light of the unknown, and you take your first breath as someone else. Anyone you want to be. You choose.
I once had this friend. She was my best friend I’ve ever had. We did everything together for 8 years. She’d come over before school. She’d come over after school. We had every class together. She ate dinner with my family. We shared everything. She knew everything about me. And I about her.
Then one day she disappeared. No goodbye, No anything.
At first I thought it was probably my fault, I did something wrong or that I’m a bad friend.
But that really wasn’t the case.
I should have learned then that people always let you down. It’s not like I asked her for anything, other then to be her friend. I have come to the conclusion that people are just selfish and self involved. I mean I guess I understand that, It’s your life, look out for yourself. I could never do that to anyone.
But the fact is that she didn’t care about me. No one really does.
Empty bathrooms, clogged drains, buried behind drywall, mold in buildings dying from their own humanity; we built you, you are not perfect, everything we make will fall apart.
Our hands destroy by creating, adding misery, suffering, decay.
It is unnatural, we are unnatural.
At the end of the world only guitar picks and drumsticks will be left, violin bows and piano keys littering empty streets, vibrating with the history of their notes once played, the remembrance of sound, the hum of melody buzzing in the air like energy, electricity, conducted in waves across pure oxygen—there is nothing left to exhale
— a record player, somewhere, skipping, playing Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da by the Beatles.
kerouac would be proud;
“hey, listen,” I’d say.
“I’m planning on stealing a car and driving down to Mexico, taking the scenic route. There’s a passenger seat with your name on it, and I hear the weather’s real nice this time of year.”