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Troubled Dreams

A pattern emerges in troubled dreams of intimacy gone wrong. My daylight hours are marked by new shapes and habits of an otherwise familiar depression. Impotence and cynicism shade the outlook of the future, and the only solace I have ever known still remains my first and only line of defense: escape. Escape in fictions, both digital and analog. Escape in passing obsessions, departing as quickly as they materialize. When nostalgia comes, as I look back on the year and the years that came before, it shades everything with a simplicity and purity that simply was not present at the time. If only it were so. I live in a dungeon of my own design, flawless in its simplicity. Emptiness has once again found a way to fill me, and all that looms before me is gloom and twilight, as I rest with the things I have done. Is this real? I forget. I remember. I forget again. I remember less. This year I will celebrate 10 years of relative freedom. The tenth anniversary of running away from a broken home at a tender age, and refusing everything other than the right to make my own mistakes. I look back on the triumphs, experiments, and failures of a decade spent making things more difficult than they ever had to be. The homes I’ve built and dismantled, and the bridges still burning mark milestones on a path to this place, which is where, exactly? Half abandoned already, derelict and drafty, what possessed me to settle here? To squat in this hole, and let the days lap over me, in the slow progression of time. I know, but cannot explain. Regardless of the path, here we are. Blowing out the candles and languishing in the vanity of despair. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, if you could judge me by decisions. Happy New Year.

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inner me: you have spent the entirety of your life wandering aimlessly, drifting toward the path of least resistance like some obtuse bovine with no ambition to speak of, no drive, no goal, and no ability to commit to anything for more than a year or two. you spinelessly accept loss and misfortune with a shrug, idiotically bumbling towards the next open door while maintaining emotional distance and isolation from anyone who could begin to give assistance because you are unable even to desire anything different from the misery you make for yourself.

me: ...bruh

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Exodus of New Orleans

I feel an anxiety in this city. Some intimidating thing, almost openly threatening me. It’s like an unspoken promise of bad-burial, and I’m not just talking about the high water-table. I’m talking about a stranger in an alley somewhere, gripping a lead pipe with my name on it. Or a culture of brain-eating bacteria, colonizing our water pipe. I hope I get out before it finds me, whatever it is.

I’m leaving next week, bound for ye olde hometown. A place I’ve avoided with great tenacity for five years. The last time I lived there, I had a belt around my arm, on again off again, for the same amount of time. There were a lot of reasons to leave back then. Hopefully they’re not still there, but I have a feeling the place has changed, and anyway, so have I.

[blogoblag]

Hungry hearts, resigned to starvation. Love couldn’t save us.

Love can’t save anyone.

[blogoblag]

inner me: you have spent the entirety of your life wandering aimlessly, drifting toward the path of least resistance like some obtuse bovine with no ambition to speak of, no drive, no goal, and no ability to commit to anything for more than a year or two. you spinelessly accept loss and misfortune with a shrug, idiotically bumbling towards the next open door while maintaining emotional distance and isolation from anyone who could begin to give assistance because you are unable even to desire anything different from the misery you make for yourself.

me: ...bruh

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Waste

Spring comes to New Orleans, if you can believe it. Even if you can’t believe it, the birds and the tourists are adamant. Yesterday I saw someone had scrawled “I hate this part of Texas” on a bathroom wall. I can relate. I’ve gone back to writing stories, or trying to, that are so macabre my mother will never have the heart to read them. And I’m thinking about waste. The countless things I’ve ever had and thrown away. The thousands of dollars, the friendships and love, and the treasures beyond counting. It seems like no one could’ve discarded such an immeasurable trove of items and artifacts; I must be some kind of badass or something. A zen master, too well-versed in the art of letting go. To have held so much, and let it all blow away like ashes on the wind, with only the occasional pang of remorse, rising unbidden from near-forgotten memories to mark their passing. This is the only tombstone they will ever get. It is the 21st of January, and the world is still here.

[blogoblag]

Lamenting the flea’s lack of perseverance to see the job through. Learn to finish what you start, slacker.

[blogoblag]

Troubled Dreams

A pattern emerges in troubled dreams of intimacy gone wrong. My daylight hours are marked by new shapes and habits of an otherwise familiar depression. Impotence and cynicism shade the outlook of the future, and the only solace I have ever known still remains my first and only line of defense: escape. Escape in fictions, both digital and analog. Escape in passing obsessions, departing as quickly as they materialize. When nostalgia comes, as I look back on the year and the years that came before, it shades everything with a simplicity and purity that simply was not present at the time. If only it were so. I live in a dungeon of my own design, flawless in its simplicity. Emptiness has once again found a way to fill me, and all that looms before me is gloom and twilight, as I rest with the things I have done. Is this real? I forget. I remember. I forget again. I remember less. This year I will celebrate 10 years of relative freedom. The tenth anniversary of running away from a broken home at a tender age, and refusing everything other than the right to make my own mistakes. I look back on the triumphs, experiments, and failures of a decade spent making things more difficult than they ever had to be. The homes I’ve built and dismantled, and the bridges still burning mark milestones on a path to this place, which is where, exactly? Half abandoned already, derelict and drafty, what possessed me to settle here? To squat in this hole, and let the days lap over me, in the slow progression of time. I know, but cannot explain. Regardless of the path, here we are. Blowing out the candles and languishing in the vanity of despair. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, if you could judge me by decisions. Happy New Year.