it's sad.
how i hold onto things that are meant to crumble.
i used to collect pebbles when i was a kid. (or it was my sister who did it, and i copied her.)
i am the copy of a copy of a copy.
i am a collage.
i was never new, i shall never be complete.
i used to collect pebbles when i was a kid. i continued doing so until pebbles turned into rocks i wasn't meant to carry and the balcony was full. once in a while i would pick up an ugly piece of pebble and make it mine. someone would tell me it was not a rock, just a piece of dirt. yet, i would hold onto it, turning it in my palm "it is not dirt. is it? it is so hard. it can't be. i'll wash it. then you'll see." all the while knowing in my heart that it would crumble to dust soon, that i shouldn't take it home. but wishing, but hoping that i had found my own hidden treasure.
so i turn this thing in my palm. through my words i keep washing it. telling myself all the bad thoughts were taught to me, and goodness still remains. i want to reach that pebble of trust, i want to reach my self-confidence. i know my eyes are in the middle; if i hold onto it long enough then i shall see my true heart.
i hold onto it and it crumbles. it is dirt, it is dirt, scream the ones within. pieces fall off, and i hold onto it.
i take my face and push it in the mirror.
if only my eyelashes manage to make it through...
-what is wrong?
-nightmares and fat.
-another beer then?
-just put it on the tab.
-so, i don't know the names of our security guards. i've been living here for over a year now. and i still don't know their names.-
i am capable of looking at the green of the grass down below, or the blue of the pool, and ignoring the apartment blocks in different shades of shit. i am kind of afraid, soon i might find something beautiful and peaceful in them, too, though.
my whole existence revolves around keeping me sane. and safe. safe from the darkness of my own being. i've tried so many different techniques over the years, it is quite an interesting selection. i close my eyes, and the blood i've shed, the tears i swallowed, the booze i washed myself in all come rushing. waves and waves of spit and piss and red and black. the views i memorized, the movies i read along, the books i've ran; thousands of images cover the walls of my brain. i can hear myself laughing and screaming over the walls of years. i close my eyes and i hear my silence. the silence i love and crave constantly, but spiral away from daily...
then a word singles itself out: remorse. and i play with it among my filth. i keep trying to make it mine, make it true. but the closest i can get to it is through the days of self-hate. the days of regretting life, regretting sun, regretting heart. other than that i can't regret anything, for i always made calculated decisions. and, yes, so what if my math sucked or i pretended i had forgotten to count during some of those. in the end the worst of them made the greatest stories, and i felt my being expand, contract, diffuse through the years. i even multiplied myself into rays of light, and divided me into armies of ants.
remorse...
i can make myself regret being open. i can make myself regret being a drunk and humiliating myself now and again. i can regret saying i love you too soon, or saying i love you just because i wanted to hear me say it. i can make myself regret loving totally while letting him/her convince me i know nothing of love. i can regret listening to people, yes, talking to people. i can regret never really losing myself in another for long enough. i can regret wanting to lose myself in another forever and ever. i can regret touching another skin too quickly, i can regret slipping away before saying good morning. i can easily regret love, and i can skilfully regret non-love...
”why did i do that?”, “why can’t i learn?”, “i wish i hadn’t said that...” tiny little pieces of regret we carry in our bodies. The tissue moves them around, and some days we just can’t ignore the pain of those broken pieces...
beware though, remorse may be fatal. remorse will suffocate your soul. an infection airborne that will also kill the joy of anyone who breathes with you.
it is easy to regret one’s own past, and pretend past is the reason you can’t be born again. yet a phoenix rises from its own ashes, and if it can’t accept what will be burnt, those ashes will never be whole again.
-the kids play under the sun. and my lungs annoy me. when will you learn? you smoke too much, and outside, too, it is still cold; says mother. i let her be the voice of regret that i lack today, for i know it has been 15degrees for days, and i caught the cold through the sweats of nightmares. i let her be, and i force a smile between the coughs. i won’t smoke till i fully recover; i tell her. i won’t smoke till i am done with my to-do list, i tell myself. i don’t hate anything today, so i can’t deeply regret anything.-
red devil's horns
yellow-brown constructions gloves
suction arrows and a bow
origami boxes
eerie dolls
a glow-in-the-dark skull
drawings-sketches-polaroids of non-things
bubble maker bottles - and yesyes bubbles floating in the air
candles-candle holders-matches-lighters
zen tarot cards-ancient tarot cards
squares-rectangles-triangles of lace
hats and scarves and arm-warmers
and yes pink sunglasses that should belong to an alien
this is not a carni-show
this is my room during a spring cleaning
(it is spring if i say it is spring)
(i wrote a little story
oh i felt it being written)
maybe i was again dreaming
and erased it through waking
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
Walt Whitman
"and before you know it, the object disappears, arguments evaporate; no culprit is discovered, the offense ceases to be an offense and becomes a matter of fate, like the toothache which cannot be blamed on anyone, and the only thing that's left is, once again, to bang the wall as hard as you can."
fyodor dostoevsky
little boy, little boy, what were you thinking? didn't you see the warning signs?
the road was blocked, and the vicinity was evacuated with good reason.
let's say curiosity got the best of you and you made it to the gates; the big whiny padlock obviously didn't stop you, and you thought the dancing shrubs were a hoot, but what about the headless chickens running around and the bleeding grass?...
did you think you were in an amusement park, and this was a fancy horror ride?
you did get to waltz through, though. didn't even realize the booby traps you set off...
just as you exited through the back door, the house exploded, collapsed, and burned...
it is an ancient house, it took awhile for it to respond...
you went off to save your little princess yes.
but little boy, be assured, the smell of destruction hides well.
you will smell the house on your dirty little fingers through time.
through neverending silly little quests, the smell will remain by thy side.
the house will rebuild itself, the headless chickens will be reborn, and the new shrubs will dance better.
but the next time you come around, the house will smell its own destruction on you from lives away.
the next time you come around, the gates themselves will eat you alive.
the house will make a lantern out of your skull.
little boy, little boy, what were you thinking?
this is a curse so strong, even your fairy godmother can't lift it.
