I think a lot about my past. That is to say, I think a lot about interspersed periods of dark vaccuum and white light that fill up the parts of my memory where my past should by all rights be; and this thinking is not so much reflection than unprovoked and unstoppable fixation on those missing hours. It goes without saying that aimless non-reflection does little if anything at all to bring what one might call some sort of catharsis. I don't know...
There are other times, too, when the clock winds itself back as if possessed, and I find myself for hours reliving seemingly random sequences of events that correspond to what I actually can remember. Sometimes this can be nice, I suppose; at other times, I find myself catatonic, head throbbing, praying for the sleep that never seems to come easily without alcohol or sedatives. Even so, I find it strange myself that, in these instances, I again never seem to truly reflect on what these events mean as for who I am as a person. I've found that, even though I acknowledge my circumstances to be genuinely unfortunate at times, I cannot quite seem to make the motion required to regret or lament the aforementioned circumstances.
Is this, too, another level of dissociation, from my world and myself? Emotions indefinitely interred in winter slumber, and the rational side of my mind overcompensating until even the thought of talking to another human being makes me physically ill?
Were things ever truly easier? It's hard to even say definitively, as I feel an outsider from even my own life experiences at this junction in time. Maybe things were always bad, I start to think. I smoke my last cigar, play with the blueberry flavored missile of tobacco between my lips until the sweet taste of the flavored wrapper goes away. It is good. In the end, without having learned anything of myself or how to continue on from this point, I retire for the night, and squint at the bizarre texture of a wall until that thief called sleep decides to visit me.
"I met a genius on the train
About 6 years old
He sat beside me
And as the train
Ran down along the coast
We came to the ocean
And then he looked at me
It's not pretty
It was the first time I'd
- Charles Bukowski
I feel most days like I'm standing in another person's shoes; there are people who would love to tell me differently, that in fact, I am living with the consequences of my own reckless and drug-addled life. They're not wrong, but who the hell is right, anyway?
No, if I am being truthful, I feel so divorced from my own life that I don't know how to go about picking up the pieces, nor do I know if it's really worth attempting to do so. Imagine if you woke up one day, burdened with financial and spiritual debts to be paid without any real recollection of the transpiring events that lead to such. It's jarring, to say the absolute least of the matter, and enough to drive almost anyone insane: or enough to drive anyone to drink to cope with the absurdity of it all. I suppose I'm in the latter camp. Cheers.
At the worst intervals, everything might as well corrode into mashed-potatoes and carrots. What I mean by that is that, everything seems to be so heinously contradictory from the outset that it seems clear to me even the forces imposing such absurdity must be at least somewhat self-aware of it, if only a little. But as it were, no-one seems to take notice of this. I am furthered isolated from the world around me by my inherent inability to grasp meaning and importance to trivialities (at least, trivialities in my mind. Perhaps that's part of the issue). It's as though everyone got the memo but I, about how to exist and function in the context of the world and people around us all. If someone did in fact get that memo, would you mind sharing it with me? No such luck, I'm afraid.
I've felt trapped for so long that it's almost starting to scare me how strangely indifferent I've become to the state of my life. God knows there's not enough sleep to go around as it is, let alone enough to actually muster the required energies to fight for myself. I feel anesthetized, habituated to the water rising above my neck, with no urgency to keep myself above it. I suppose this is what happens when your belief that the world owes you not a thing seeps into your being, permeates and festers there, until you believe that you don't owe yourself a thing either. I guess that's just getting used to feeling like you're fucked all the time.
Luckily enough, they bottle courage. At least God or whoever gave us that much.
I looked at myself in the mirror today, for a long time, in some kind of semi-psychotic temporary abstinence from my usual alcoholicness. The cliché to say would be that I didn't really recognize myself; I'm opting to say that I do recognize my basic features, the outline that makes me, the face I've seen in half-glances into the mirror..but what alarms me is how much older I look already. The alcohol and drugs have seemingly eliminated some unnameable quality that my face used to hold, call it, a youthfulness, or thickness of the blood or whatever it may be. The glossiness of my eyes only eliminates from their usual shine; my skin has taken on definitive wrinkles, even if they are not so blatantly obvious. I look at the tattoos on my face: I don't entirely remember getting them, but I remember waking up years ago to find them, summarily drinking myself underneath the table so as not to worry about it. I can hardly call it unrecognizable, but it is... concerning, and markedly changed.
Days like this remind me too starkly of the disconnect between my former self and now. I think a lot about my demeanour and my reactions to things, and the changed nature of those too. I think a lot about the people I used to call my friends and family. I think a lot about visiting my friend I used to shoot dope with. He got a blood infection from using dirty needles. They had to amputate his feet. I remember seeing him bedridden, and noticing his legs ending in stumps underneath the blanket where his feet should have began. I remember getting high in the lobby of that hospital afterwards. I don't really remember what I did after that.
It's been almost a year. I think about seeing the body of this kid who died of a brain aneurysm in his sleep. I'd seen bodies before, but I'd never seen that much blood. I remember my homeless friends arguing about what to do with the body, whether to call the police. I remember them arguing about whether it was a good idea or not to let him smoke crack a few hours previously. I remember them blaming eachother for killing him. I remember the couch cushion that sucked up almost all of the blood.
I remember being arrested on a warrant for lodging in public spaces just a few days after that. The cop put on the handcuffs too tight. I remember for months afterwards the numbness of my thumb from the incident. I remember being fingerprinted. I remember the small holding cell with sixteen people and the floor covered with piss. I remember not being able to piss because I was too shy. I remember using a roll of toilet paper as a pillow. I remember the plasticy and dry bread with peanut butter they brought to us at four o' clock in the morning.
I remember sitting under a tree in the summer, laying on a blue tarp, watching a spider and drinking cheap beer. I remember how good that day was. I remember being cognizant of how good I felt at that moment in time, and how depressed I got afterwards when I realized this moment wasn't going to last. I must've watched that spider for hours. He was a big one, impeccably long-legged with some kind of yellowish pattern on his back. I went back there weeks later, but the spider had moved on, it appeared.
I remember when I was really young. I remember my mother, drunk and belligerent, coming home hours past midnight. I remember them fighting. I remember someone drawing a knife. I still don't know who it was. My father told me she had grabbed the knife, and he had managed to pry it from her in the struggle. I don't remember my mother ever commenting about that event, and I never asked.
I think about the causality of these events. I think about how much events make up who I am. I think about drinking. Sometimes, I think about raccoons or butterflies.
I am so tired of thinking, but it constitutes the vast majority of my free time.
When I was a younger man, about 50,000 cigarettes ago and God knows how many kilograms of heroin ago, an ex-fiancée ago, almost ten years ago.. I had the vague notion of purpose that punctuated my every action. I was going somewhere, even if I didn't know exactly where the trail lead to.
The contrast between the vague-but-certainly-real confidence of then and the aimlessness and idling of the now is baffling.
What on God's green earth ever happened to me?
Then I recall. I played with fire until my mind split irreversibly in twain.
I'm starting to think Mainländer was right about everything.
I had a dream about someone important to me. It was one of those ghastly dreams that blurs the already tenuous lines between reality and fiction; one of those dreams that makes you all too keenly aware of how mentally unwell you are. It wasn't a restful dream. It wasn't a good dream or a bad dream. I woke up steeped in my own sweat and panic. I woke up exhausted beyond belief.
It made me realize just how exhausted I've become; how tired I am of continuing to struggle for basic existence. How tired I am of building armies in my mind, of the proxy wars necessary just to keep what one loves, of deterrence, counter-plotting, of constant self-loathing...
He was right, what terrible fucking uneasiness lies in being loved.
At the least, I've come to somewhat of a breaking point. I'll either figure out what to do, or get so terribly drunk that maybe things will work themselves out.
Peace and love.
Still incompatible with reality. Just more lonely and with even less to say about it. In other news, I finished seventeen non-nights. Unsure in what direction to put forth my effort now...Maybe I'll write something fun this time.
More peace and love,
Too much in my own world, wading through the fog of memory and the nightmares inbetween. Gazing at what I can see of the world through half-wonders, through half-everythings, really. Cloudy night, trying to quit smoking. Watched the street signals just before midnight give way to their rhythmic red blinking. Terribly anxious for some undefined reason, as if sleep wasn't hard enough to get as-is.
I wasn't always so unwell. It's hard to separate the unwellness from my personality at this point. Of all the things I hate about myself, that particular aspect gets under my fucking skin. But hell, what would you do?
..and my sorrow, engendered by the complex flame of my embittered emotions, continues in its acuity with no apparent resolution in sight. Plastered with just a sip of my bottled self-deception, and until I am covered in it and I am become one with it and I am it in itself, because I could not, and seemingly could never, construct myself an escape into the fantasy of daily life. There it all is; the shock-and-awe of it, of loving so madly and being so madly loved, and the unfortunate proof of how tremendously love burdens the soul, juxtaposed with the contradiction of the poison of loneliness and desolate nights at the end of a bottle. The vulnerability of the darkness of hurt we all bear like the cross; the impossibility of a single true embrace. And words that I never knew I meant that slipped out, in haste, and anger, like everything, steeped in self-contempt and irking fucking misery, which only served to amplify how abrasive and raw the words that followed:
"You can't save the world."
And now we stand looking at the world as though it were only in the reflection of a shattered and foggy ash-tray,
and everyone is gone or going.