somebody asked me if i was really a computer program. i wish i was. then i could be the game itself without the self-consciousness of playing it. my sensibilities, divided so neatly, could exist as truly autonomous strings of code. if i wasn't a person but a thing, and at that only a half-thing--an invisible mesh of ones and zeros leaving globs of text on various cheap freeware blogspot sites--then i could do away with the emotional tangle i can't work my way out of. all my life it's been the same thing. i attract people, they fall in love with me, it's sweetness and light until they realize that i'm really a self-centered bitch. the purity of character they liked so much is the purity of the cold driven snow. they call my bluff. they tell me i live in my own world, a world of concepts and ideas and that i'm not and could never be there for them.
i do love. i do. it's just not good enough. it's like i'm broken inside. i punch myself and cry my eyes out but it never brings about a sustained feeling.
i don't know what to do. i took two muscle relaxers and brought a knife and some pictures with me to the bath, where i sobbed for an hour straight, staring at my submerged body in the gray light. it was a thin gray light, getting thinner by the second as the pills kicked in. i looked at my legs, the muscles on my stomach, the way my chest moved stubbornly up and down. fuck, party people. i wrote a note saying i was sorry, but i couldn't do it. i wasn't serious, i just wanted to push myself to the edge because i wanted a sign, i wanted a reason.
as always, when all else fails, there's the idea of all the stories i still want to tell. even if it's a mirage, the goddamn writing feels like a purpose. please don't freak out. this is not a cry for help. suicide is not my style. it's merely a description of my ongoing flirtation with non-being. that paradise where time is not the enemy or the guide.
(an enemy behind enemy lines)
if i could i would be disseminated by the push of a button. i'd sneak through firewalls, replicate myself like a virus. i'd be the copy of the copy of the copy. a link back to a page not found. a sticky spot on the sheets, the knock of life's pulse in yr wrists (but not life itself) the shadow but not the deed the desire but not the act.
nothing. the nothingness of being blissfully blank
like coming off the coffee
like writer's block without the grass
like shit stained tile beneath the sign asking you to please wash yr hands
like being alone in the crowd.
the party where you don't know anyone
a cul-de-sac a broken wheel
yr dead, drowned twin you still see every morning in the mirror
like holding on to the bleeding edge with missing fingers
like the blinking yellow light on the empty country road
like the shit you come up with when you're high that yr too lazy to write down
i'm floating above you with the asbestos
i'm the girl/boy you want to fuck who says let's just
(do nothing)
and so you do nothing and then you do nothing some more
until the nothing creeps in filling up all the lonely parts
leaving you with unfinished stories
alcoholic blackouts
an unknowable pressure right behind yr eyes
the passive aggressive stoner space out
as you stand over the hole and contemplate the building waiting to be born.
i bought a broken amp from a crackhead
so that i can play songs i haven't written yet
with his crazy drugged-out jerky movements
saying bitch over and over and spilling his pepsi on his pants
he doesn't want to kill me just shake me up a little
like i do to get my broken watch to still tell time
a drop of water got inside
i keep it on my shelf so i can watch it slowly rust
the sentimental value gently eroding away
as the tick-tocks become more and more sporadic and further apart
(i love it so much i didn't break it on purpose i'm just not used to taking care of nice things)
my sympathy is always unfinished
my empathy unresolved
openended
for the people on the train
the people in my contacts
all the ways in which i organize my life
according to the fantasy of being in control
because really i'm nothing
just passing through
unable to cross the bridge
stuck in the station after midnight
jumping up and down to keep the army of rats away
dreaming of the sea that wants to take me
the soil that wants to swallow me whole
so what difference does it make what i write here?
it's just words words words
they aren't doing anything
half-orphans
they don't belong to me or to anyone
what matter is it if i leave them scattered like newspaper pages on the train
go ahead wrap a piece of fish with them
light them on fire
i can delete this blog right now and it will be
{poof}
as though it never happened.
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