Spaced out visions. How I hate the corporeal clacking of plastic words and computer keys. Yet the mad dirges in my head drive me to a frenzy: anything but the numbing madness of my mind - I would rather bear with the bicentennial artifice of silicon pixels and scrapped knowledge. Beggars cant be choosers.
Sometimes I think that the world has already ended, apocalypse come and gone, and I am still in limbo deluding over my own version of what should have happened. The proverbial petulant child, with her pouted lip incessantly complaining about how things did not go the way she would have wanted. How the stars and sun must be realigned to suit her needs, and why should they not. My silent reproach for the Almighty. I have done nothing - literally. I have never screamed, never broken hearts, never delved into passions sans regret. I have not yet lived.
"Whose fault is that? "
Still, I demand my chance to ruin, to self-distruct, to finally and for once make my mistake; some colossal, all encompassing blunder that shakes me out of my silent, serene stupor.
Truthfully I have been robbed out of my chance to fatally fuck-up. I have listened to the arcane idiots of this world and been a good girl. I am now blank, thank you very much! I have yet to conquer my milestones, have done nothing of any consequence and the world is ceasing to exist before my eyes: politely clapping its doors shut, folding itself away and neatly shelfing itself in some dark, damp and lurid corner of some distant nebula I am yet unaware of. Hoop La! "Well sorry dear we’re closing soon, folding out of business. You’ll have to fuck-up some other time."
But I demand this one thing of whoever or whatever in hell is up there, or down there or somewhere in between...who really knows. I demand my shot at my mistake. Fuck the random propensity of incoherent thoughts and images. I curse my inability to scream and rage, and so I silently wait for the torturous tides to pass my being.
Basically I am bored, my idle musings, my narcissistic meanderings… are all backhand consequences of idle, impervious, merciless time. Quite perplexing - am I glad it’s over, or terrified that its about to be and I haven’t yet gotten any of my ducks in a row, haven’t done all that one is supposed to do in this life?
Then again what is it that we are supposed to do? What is the purpose of our ontological dilemma - this eternal dance back and forth between who we "are" and who we are "supposed" to be.
“Being” is bloody hard enough.
I cringe at this yearning for a fuck up. I am shuttled to a near past... half a decade, say... when I wondered after a tediously and suicidally achieved 'colossal' fuck up why, oh why, did I not change when I could? And yet, I wonder how could I have 'seen' what I 'saw' unless I had cooked and simmered into the BIG CRUNCH of me-verse. Unless I had burst the bubbles I had worn since thirteen. Unless I had disproved the stable-girl label, the well-on-her-way to ivyleague stardom label.
ReplyDeleteIt was not the proverbial drugs, sex and rock n roll. It was the inevitable end of literarily acquired idealisms that went out with a vengeance. It was the uncaging from the texts that papermachie-ed my many facades. It was a rip, a ravine, between my skins and my core, between my insistences on my reality and the actual mercies of THE reality ... oh, words surrender... it was an experience and a high but it was also painful.
And I think back, and still wonder why. I see why it had to be. But I also see how I should have bailed out without waiting for a fuck up. 'All I had to do' was just to let go of certain intangible NEEDS... clingings... 'pretences'... the willingness to see my self in the way I feared to be... discover that I wasn't what I feared... and see what I really was.
Oh the stupidity, the colossal colossal stupidity.
I hope you do not need a fuck up... though of course no one can take one away from you if thats what you really want!
Plus, am adding your blog to my blog's blog list. I cannot suggest that we are alike at all, but there are coincidences of words, images, yearnings that take me back, that revive a me that is long gone.
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