I suppress the surges, even when I don’t mean to.
They swell, then subside.
I swallow and swallow and swallow them. I push them so far down, I think they must be gone.
Empty in the outer layers, but, underneath, tiny vibrations, too far away to register with a label, yet present enough to remind me of my worth.
I’m screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming
to myself, silently
into the dark
hoping for catharsis
but I’m still just as fucked
Cobain sang about not having a gun, but ate a 20-gauge.
Benington…
Avicii…
I would love to believe that if they had chosen the other path, they would be glad today that they did.
How do others find the courage?
If I can’t get better, maybe I’d rather reach that level where I can finally act rather than remain in limbo.
I write not on account of skill, as I am certainly lacking. Rather, I write because there is a deep need, vast and cluttered with dust clouds and a few faint stars and violent storms and ocean tides and evergreen forests and cycles of the moon and heartaches and hope for life and quiet pleas for death or sleep and a real person turned away, hidden, who I can never become.
The writing will continue until I’ve purged so much need, there’ll be no more words to be said, or my end has arrived — whichever comes first.
If I were to suddenly die unexpectedly, no warning at all, no time to prepare; part of me today wants all of these words spread to all who knew me.
But the catch here is that I can’t care about any of it after I’m gone, so it really makes no difference either way.
Rather, I wish I was better at conversation so I wouldn’t need to be.
One of these days, I will hopefully find a way to properly honour you and what you have done for me.
I have had enough with being met with angry responses to my attempts to be helpful, kind, and considerate of others.
I will no longer engage or pursue. I will distance myself. I may forgive sometimes, but I will not forget.
Those who bite the hands that appreciate them can get absolutely fucked.
I guess the only thing I can do is find something else.
Maybe addition is not the answer. Good design is typically subtractive, not additive. Design my life – what needs to go?
Maybe remove something before adding something. Not enough breaths in the day.
What do I do when writing is no longer enough?
Maybe adding an alternative is not the answer.
Maybe subtraction is the way.
“The best design is subtractive”, I once heard.
In the design of my life, what could I let go?
What would bring peace in its absence?