Even if I wanted to publish an email to extend outward toward conversations, my gut starts acting up and I feel all suffocated and dreadful.
Dread of hurting people more than I already have, dread of fidgeting and my sickness infecting others. A snake curling itself around each finger thinking if you type enough it’ll let go, but it tightens. I know all too well now that every word is a stake in the arm until you’re clamped into a mausoleum of ideas that you’ll never implement and dreams you’re better off dreaming alone.
Sometimes I wonder how much my sickness leaks out in these writings – I make sure to tie it all together and make it all not exist, bundled under the void tree for a void holiday and there’s no one coming, no point making cookies.
It’s not within your interests to feel anything as you get older – if you do, you best hope you transplant it into something.
My choice surgical procedure is writing neurotica because it helps deal with all of the swirling one could get lost in. How easy to sink into a baseball announcer’s rhythm.
Eye the hotdogs you’ll never eat anyway, corn syrup tomato toppings for cortisol sharpening – best avoided, but you could get lost in the smells. You could go up and down many concrete steps, confectionary stands with a Dip N’ Dots island between shuffling crowd intermissions. Standing in the hall until the lights go out. Being phantom of some bygone American era, if it ever existed.
And maybe it’s on me to enter the announcer’s box to continue the beat, smiling families for a Summer’s evening of graduations and caps flying – but do you think you would ever find the words to assure the next generation? Sometimes I can’t even find the words to assure those close; what business do I have telling these starry-eyed about anything at all?
If I could become the deaf-dumb mute, believe me – well, it’s close anyway. Maybe I find it important to catch these things to cage here for however long. Maybe I hope to find a rhythmic escape; perpetual theta waves, no typing required.
The same as the first winter’s jacket so I hope to paint it all otherwise, everyday. I don’t want to pull anymore hairs nor trace along things so gated, nor nursing sicknesses through any word. Maybe it’s inevitable.
Staring out the back-seat yellow bus window in what many presume to be a picturesque moment but surely you know how it’s inaccessible to you, even while you’re there.
[I am not supposed to exist]
[There are no interests to hold]
[You are written by men much more intelligent than you]
[There is nothing outside of yourself]
[Molded into a model citizen]
[Have you ever fought for anything before?]
[Pride before the fall]
[Why are you feeling things that aren’t real?]
Gripping roses and letting some blood drip; there’s no point coddling anything anymore. Whatever gentleness you could presume is only delaying the crucifixion. If you caught me between Omaha through Chattanooga, you’re looking at a foreigner more than anything else.
They say if you saw things as they really are, you’ll furnish yourself with joyous tears perpetually. But it seems the walkway there is filled with thorns and thistles merging: it seems even if you reach the top you’ll be lacerated all in.
Maybe that’s half the point. May as well destroy everything you ever were to rebuild again.
Do you think the Statue of Liberty ever wished for the same things?