Intervention
Do you ever find yourself staring at your skin. Trying to crawl inside the crevice of a pore. Maybe hoping you will see all the cells that are destroying you. That you might be able to see all the ones that are cancer. The ones that make you feast on your own flesh. The little cellular manifestations of neurosis that have been multiplying in side of you.
And you wonder where it all went to shit. Watching how long you were able to stave off the beast bumping walls inside your flesh, before the dam finally broke. It's amazing how most of life can make you feel ill if you just stand there feeling it. It only feels right whipping off of you, like so much dog slobber out of the window.
I have found myself in the middle of a bunch of shit I have forgotten to care about. I have shows that I am doing, and I feel like no one is coming. And it's probably good because I am done finding things to say. And yet, the show must go on, which is a sociopath's metaphor for life, but it's those sociopaths that make the world go round. And meanwhile all I do is look at this computer and feel sick. Which is what computers do eventually. They make you sick. Like minds. They do that too. They don't think they can go on, and they shut everything down.
Maybe that's not what they do. Maybe I don't know what they do. Or I don't want to know.
Blah blah blah priorities mixed up. Blah Blah tired of the rat race I am not even a part of. Blah blah, just another discontented youth ruining this world.
I have loved every day of being smart. Every tear of self-righteous awarness I have savored--drunk fully after having watched them glisten in the light of strangers' eyes. Watching me. Seeing that I am good. No. That I am better.
And I see that my knowledge is abuse. It seeks to dominate and make little of the objects it shines light through, as in some kind of pretty little prism shadow-puppet show. The more I know, the more I grasp, the more I have control over, the less is in my hand. It's very zen all spelled out in letters. It's a psychotic egg-scramble of flesh, blood and soft, jelly-like organ.
We strive for the mastery of plastic. Mastery makes children's toys of life's artifacts. The easier to kick around. Made unbreakable and meaningless. Once I can shake all the emotion out of my experience I can put it on a shelf and talk about it. I have lived a life this way. And none of my friends or family has ever once stepped in and grabbed me by the arm, and said stop. I want you to stop trivializing everything you do. Please stop. You are hating your life and it's painful to watch. The smoking, the drinking, the eating, the watching the wanting the fucking is so empty in your idle little hands. Just stop. And I don't know if it's because we are all sick and I am not special. I'd like to think It's because no one really knows or loves me. I'd like to think the malaise more important than it is. Because this feeling of being full of sticky ice cream and not quite being sick enough of it not to pick the spoon back up has got to stop.
P.S. I am sick of shows. I have to keep showing though. Apparently. The more you do it, the less you think about it. And not showing up to the show is not an option. I am sure in 2 days I will feel remarkably better, and I will wonder what I did with all the time I wasted feeling bad and avoiding my reflection. And then I'll want to get fucked up and engorged again. Because time wasted is the regret that got me to be this little emo-bean counting humanoid freak in the first place.
posted by DesTheRay @ 11:46 PM
3 comments
