a failed catharsis

I’ve been stretching farther and farther away from my self, I’m becoming antagonistic, reaching out too far, letting my disharmony ripple and shatter along through everyone and everything I touch.  I feel like what I should be doing is inviting in the quiet, sobering force of my better half, but all I want to do is drive the psychic fist into the psychic earth, and let the shockwave that ensues cackle along and crackle the earth.  I want to feel my toes dig into the dirt, I want to ground myself, and then I want to uproot a fucking mountain, I want to flex and scream into the sky, I want to sear this world with my name and my self and then sign it like a painting I’ve passed my hands over enough times that I can resign myself to it’s countenance.  I want to allow myself to want, to make noise, to ‘be’, and then, to be good enough.

Put better, put into someone else’s words, much better words… “The quest is to be liberated from the negative, which is really our own will to nothingness. And, once having said yes to the instant, the affirmation is contagious. It bursts into a chain of affirmations that knows no limit. To say yes to one instant, is to say yes to all of existence.”

I feel I’m being coerced into to saying ‘yes.’  I feel angry, and I feel stretched thin, and I feel yes, a little indignant, and yes, a little proud, and yes, a little too fucking human.

I’d say I’d rather not sink to that level, but while I’m rathering this or that, I’m drowning in what I’ve sunk to.

Reverting to bad habits when in a deteriorated state is the worst sort of vice.  But perhaps not, too.  Perhaps the gods do as I do, create for ourselves a sort of playground and otherworldly that they can trash and destroy when they too feel trashed and destroyed.  Perhaps the indentation and pressing, depressing idea of gloom and neglect is a sort of divine nudge to remember that whoever we’ve become, no matter how powerful or depraved, we can feel heartache all the same.  But then, maybe fuck that idea too.  I don’t know how to become any more humble, I already championed the cause of my own melancholy, stood up for another against me.  I can’t arrest, try, convinct myself, and *then* be asked to build my own prison too, christ.

Any more humble and I’d have to lie, and given a choice between hubris and dishonesty, well, I can’t choose the latter.

But it’s my honesty that keeps me continuing to drink in and drown out my sad world right now.  I’m too honest to look away from the image burned into my eyes, too honest to ignore or mishear the voice haunting my ears…  and my hands are soft only because I can feel your skin upon them.  My heart stays warm because I know you’re still beside it.

I can still feel you there.

Hope is the medicine that will cure me or kill me, but I’m wracked with fear.  I don’t think my heart is going to break over this one; I think it’s finally become ready to learn what love might actually cost.  I just didn’t realize that my heart’s decision to wait for her would see the demons come after my mind instead.

~ Driz

~ by James on August 19, 2009.