diasporadic

Moving things takes a while: triage, load, mentally arrange into new time and new space–like Tetris, but with gravity–rinse, repeat. All the while, anger fuels a straight back, despite the monotony of it all, coupled with the self-persecution. Pretend that your belongings can weigh you down, keep you tethered to those whom you shared them with. A futile exercise, really, but what is the passage of time but something to eventually bow down to, while committing to memory those few moments that shone through the blackness.

Not, of course, this one. Not the blackest, but certainly the loudest in a long while. Coming home to a changed house has that tendency to bring out the worst in me, it seems, and midnight did not stop this one from happening. No catharsis, unfortunately, and no one was vindicated in any way, not even after others stepped in with their sage advice, a ruling of declaration of persona non grata for accepting a bribe for silence without even knowing that such was the consideration.

I talked about proximate cause in class, the day before effect came; what were words, apparently, had coalesced into action, declaration: “You do not belong here anymore.”

“I don’t think I ever did,” I said in reply, but backs were already turned, memories turned into haze through which everyone adopted a happy tabula rasa. Nothing happened, we do not remember that anything happened, so hi there, what seems to be the problem?

Walk away. Just walk away. And don’t you dare look back.

So ordered.

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when it hits, it hits hard

When it hits, it hits hard. It’s never one-at-a-time, because no one has time for that. Rather, more an avalanche of realizations and conclusions, all intricately linked to each other: That you were petty for doing that but no one understood that that was of some significance to your value-system then again no one is on your side anyway come to think of it none of these people are your friends to begin with actually you might probably not have any friends at all if we are talking about friends as people to whom you can reveal your darkness to because all the world is concerned about nowadays is all these external manifestations of a happiness that likely is not there anyway and we have to banish sadness with a flicka da wrist and a stupid stupid stupid fucking stupid little motivational piece of shit go away sadness hurray hurrah happy whee so how long has all this been reduced into something so rote and so mechanical to the point that nothing calms your mind and you are just exhausted all the time and you want to ditch work and school and everything else but no one cares anyway so why not just kill yourself or something since there is no point to anything anyway just like an extension of ye olde teenage angst but persistent into even past four score and ten

everyone’s in awe isle

Those who claim that everyone needs to “disconnect/unplug/disengage” every once in a while necessarily imply that there is something to sever, a cable in danger of burning out in one end (maybe even both?), that recharging requires solitude.

To be fair, it’s not as if those already “disconnected” have ever felt the need to clamor towards “connection” anyway, seeing as this illusion of “interconnected-ness”–in the communal word-vomit of a shared space, in ats and pounds linking everyone as if the world was somehow bound by some pervasively common ideas that transcend space, time, even thought–has hoodwinked everyone since some score years ago.

posterity, boy

So difficult, to cling to the idea to ascribe the obligation to others: feel, reciprocate, understand that there is a sort of pain no amount of well-intended but futile attempts at inspiration will even begin to approximate, much less alleviate. Give up, look inside instead, but still find nothing.

I do this place a great injustice. I have not written, have not been a writer for such a long time that I do not believe I even deserve the title anymore. I stare at screens and pages, as is demanded, and they stare back, not asking me to finish so I can get to making my dreams like a good boy, but asking what new colors I’ve seen, what new leaps and bounds of logic are worth talking about, whether the city will ever again have a chance to raise phoenixes for fun and profit and social status, whether Francisco’s tears really have shielded his eyes from the rust-choked wind, whether Salvacion will resort to her etiquette or to her visceral disgust at falling for an uncut heathen whose only claim to her was that his heart was struck by lightning the moment he saw her from the trees, even whether the Supreme Court of the Universe’s decision will look the way it does in the mind’s eye. Catalina’s eyes still betray her, the four men are still standing over that infernal hole, it still thinks His best work was to create that hole that could fit any kind of peg, the rikugunshokan question was still a stupid attempt at capturing the moment when enough concerns collide to kill her in a car crash, the couple still speaks one-liners in a contrived library as tribute to Carver, and no one knows of what happened to the bulul key-chain after the jangling stopped.

Long relegated them to the side, books for absent thoughts absent from the daily lug to and from home, and it is perhaps one of the most painful things I have done to myself, absent banging my head on walls and desks as (if that could help keep a tired brain awake anyway, idiot). The days simply march on, mechanical, unfeeling, and worst of all, unforgiving. I stare at scratches of an angry chicken, with all the feeling of running one’s claws into bleeding stubs against an earth that has long since dried up, not even rot to nitrite it. And then, I shudder at time lost in not keeping an un-maintained engine running. The machine is never the machinist.

This is perhaps the most horrible form of self-indulgence: the senseless sort, stuck in between the desire to lash out and let darkness speak in tongues on behalf of many a caged misanthrope and cynic, and to heap shovel upon shovel of distractions and misdirections onto a word that will never be read, much less understood by the eyes it was meant for.

carpe noctem

It never helps when someone makes it a competition, as if they could stave off the meaninglessness of it all by somehow being able to tell themselves that their pain is is greater than others’ and that that, somehow, makes them stronger.

It never helps when someone makes it a match, of who spouts more bland niceties than the other, until it all blends into a stream of redundant and rephrased nothings, words without meaning, as if the world turned on light alone, as if there was a way the coin could be heads on both sides.

It never helps when someone makes it a race, trampling on safe spaces and preferring to let dismissal and silence creep in, turning┬áthe camera toward their corner of the world, their chance to show the world what a wonderful person they’re trying to be, when all we really are is just a bunch of idiots, trying to become our own intangible Joneses.

p i e c e b y p i e c e

Maybe, tikkun olam:

t o f i x t h e w o r l d
w e s h o u l d fix ea ch ot he r;
pick ing up ea ch oth er’s
piec es and
fit ting th em ba ck to get her.

Maybe, kintsugi:

that our bro ken ness makes us beau ti ful
to tho se who h ave seen bro ken ness;
th at we share beau ty in how we fil led
o ur cra cks and corner s.

 

fourth dimension rumination

Evanescence has its uses: evading small, insignificant words, tossed around by force of habit rather than any intention to exchange; fading into doors and windows when agoraphobia sets in; floating in and out of objects, animals, people, as desired (desire is the most inappropriate term at this point); silence is a precious time that allows one’s inner voices to discuss–or debate–in peace.

It’s a significant trade, of course: there’s that particular advantage (addiction?) to having eyes focus on instead of past; of words–even one’s own voice–echoing inside instead of drifting in a straight line, form thought, form love, regurgitated and partaken; meaning full, instead of meaning less.

It would be nice to be solid (matter) every once in a while.