Wednesday, April 9, 2014

all the world's a stage we are going through


"Only once, and very late at night, did I run downstairs and out into the street with my pajamas on, gasping and watering, waiting for something-- a car? an angel?-- to come rescue or kill me, but there was nothing, only streetlights and a cat."      
-Lorrie Moore, Anagrams

I was tired in more ways than could be scribbled down-- bone-tired in a way that couldn't be written, could only be felt. But as that destitute burned away, I felt it in its entirety. Feeling the consuming fire of anger and frustration rise like flames, my own disgust fueling the fire, I realize now I've been burning all along. In my immediate past, I scared myself with the things I was able to do. I could go from watching a sunset and bouts of inspiration to wanting to claw into myself, tear into my skin-- to the desperation that wrecks and weeps and ruins. The pain began to taste sweet where it once tasted bitter. I began harming myself.

For me, I became wrapped up in the "poetry" of the darkness. But that's the thing-- there is no poetry in pain. It's painful. Nobody cares, I would wail. It was just that people didn't notice. Everyone has their own reality; self-awareness is a feat in itself; who a person is, who I was, was relative. It mattered only who I was to them. For this, I put myself in a box, torn between wanting a rescue and wanting to slam the door. The perfume, the lipstick, the crisp dresses were all just wallpaper over rotting walls, flimsy barricades against the shame and disgust that I harbored for myself. Each day, each weary morning, I carried this weight around, this burden, waiting for the stains to, I don't know, seep through, for everyone to see and be horrified. The anticipation of that moment coiled deep inside, whispering fear and regret and grief. So I harmed myself further.

In my mind, I felt like I was destined to carry sadness. I still think that, in some ways, I am. I'll always be a little bit sadder than my friends. I feel deeply, but I think that acknowledging these emotions helps me better myself, evolve. I think it's the reason that I love writing in the ways that I do. Still, I carried it and felt that no matter how many times I let myself re-imagine this scenario, it was always going to lead me to here. It was always going to end with me in a room, sad for small reasons and unable to step outside of that veil. I was just going to struggle.

"There must be things that can save us!" I wanted to shout. "But they are just not here."

I am still working through my demons, but I am working on it in ways that I didn't let myself before.
'
listening to: angel of small death and the codeine scene, hozier

Monday, February 24, 2014

rest now.

Short story I've finally finished!

It was a Tuesday. The sun had nearly set, and there were no colorful hues left in the sky. It was cold but not uncomfortably so, and therefore the window was left cracked open.

Wary hands fumbled with the filter of a cigarette that had been half-smoked from the night before. He lit it again.

He'd been meaning to quit, but he didn't fancy himself an actual smoker. He didn't smoke enough for it to be habit, and were one to ask him if he smoked, he could honestly deny it. Two cigarettes a week, maybe three. Lately, a little bit more.

Smokers often proclaimed that a cigarette during times of trouble soothed frayed nerves. If anything, he was smoking in order to get chase calmness, but he wasn’t addicted to the point where anything spectacular happened to his state of mind.

He flicked the butt of the cigarette, trailing ash into the tray, inhaled deeply, closed his eyes... pretended to be someone else.

It wasn't that he didn't like himself; there was nothing particularly wrong with him. He was kind-hearted, and he was the sort of man that others wanted to talk to. Not just out of a need to dispel sadness but more of a desire in others, a desire for them to want him to know their triumphs and tragedies. He had that effect on people. He was kind, and people needed that. There was so much in the world that was fucked up, and to have him was a bit of a reminder; he was warmth, and he was a savior within that spectrum. 

No one ever thought about how the fire burned-- they only thought of how it warmed them.

He was tired. His grandmother's voice popped into his head-- smoking will kill ya, she'd cackled. He felt like he should be guilty, even a bit sick over it. Not even two months ago and she'd died. It was hard, and thinking about it made him uneasy-- to live in a world without her, it just didn't make sense. She had smoked her entire life, had died of lung cancer. No one had been the wiser, though he suspected she knew. In the dark, he thought of it often. He wanted to curse her. She was dying, she must have known. All of the past conversations mucked around in his head, the excuses she'd given for not visiting. He'd been angry. Now he was just sick. She was dying.

When he had talked to her on the phone, she had been dying.
In the car, on his way home from work, she had been dying. He'd been talking about the fucking weather, the fucking weather, and she had been dying.

And now she was dead. She was dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
He'd forget sometimes, though how anyone could forget something like that bemused him...
He would phantomly dial her number. Would hang up.
Would wonder what she was up to--

He shook his head, thinking of the ill-suited condolences. You'll see her again. She's in a better place. Bullshit. God wasn't dead, but he sure as hell wasn't real. He wished he could believe in something, some higher level of existence, a plane above himself. He couldn't, and trying on the lie made him cringe.

He didn't think he would ever see her again. He didn't believe she was watching over him. There was nothing great or above him. She simply didn't exist anymore. Hell, it was the same fate that awaited him someday. Tick tock, tick, tock. he was fucked and everything was temporary. Everything was temporary.

It wasn't that he was suicidal; if anything, he was passively so. He wasn't going to poison himself, but if he happened to pop a few too many pills with his wine, c'est la vie. Wasn't planning on running into traffic, but if a car came rushing at him, wasn't planning on hauling ass either.

He wished he could escape, could be someone who believed in God and in the afterlife and the story.

But this wasn't about eternity; or maybe it was; it was about the lack he felt. The absence. The physical ache for something fundamentally missing.

He put out his cigarette, poured a glass of gin. Took a sip. It burned.
It was his punishment. He took another sip, set it aside, in favor of some white wine. Took three rapid sips, took a pill, took another. Took another. Took one more. 
Maybe he'd finally get some rest tonight.



Friday, January 3, 2014

2013--- farewell, year.

My 2013 wrap-up...


basically, I drank a lot of wine, watched a lot of Netflix, and went to a lot of events. ;)

Here's to you, 2014! This is the year I shall finally graduate university, get out of my apt lease (!), and hopefully get a grown-up job.

I will say that 2014 is off to a fantastic start. Kate and I got our tickets to the Supernatural convention later on in the year, and we're going to get to meet Misha. WAHOOOOOO.