Evidence to prove the point

Awkward, uncomfortable, uncertain. And here I thought I’d left this part of me behind.

What happened to cool, confidant, assured? What happened to adept, sexy, sure?

Oh, that was when there was this counter between us. When I had a methodology and a pattern in between us. When I had a significant distance separating us. When I had a line you, legally, weren’t allowed to cross.

I’m an anarchist. Where does this fit in?
I’m in control of myself, but not the world.
That makes me feel safe and sound.

And here, I used to think that perhaps I’d become too shallow. Nobody else got this impression, but that was in the design – wasn’t it, doce?

Oh yes. I was intentioned, even then.

I think my biggest flaw right now is that I don’t know what I want. Or, perhaps, it could be better said that I know just what I want but not how to get it. Or, even more clear: I know what perfect thing I’d like to find, but I can’t find where to find that.

Complicated. I just get more and more complicated, every day. Each second that goes by, each dodgy heart beat that escapes through the bones of my chest, each breath I take; I’m just falling apart.

It wasn’t bad enough to realise that I have no memory, no concept of the past. That settled in my head something like insanity, I think. Then came: I can’t spell, and I have a shit vocabularly, and I made up people because I couldn’t sort out friends. Lastly was this realization that I like my stories best because in them is about the only place I feel I can away from myself.

These all were some fucking hard hits to take. But, what was I going to do? Complain? Belly-ache?


So, here I am with no concept of who I was, with writings tucked away in a closet reminding me of how I got here. No photographs to speak of because we burned all of those. A document or two from someone like me, years ago, written all in second-person narrative.
And all of these are my tether?


A lot of crying about the past that I don’t even recall — that’s right about where we are. So, fuck me.

I’m coming apart at the seams like James Joyce.
If only I had a Beckett to transpose, translate, write it down word for word. But then, I’m not there quite yet, am I? Find me when I’m blind on bad days and we’ll see how well I respond.

I saw a sign today about retirement and a plan. I could only laugh. My plan is to be dead before I can’t take it anymore. It’s a shit plan, I know. But there’s always hemlock and I hear that’s a quieter way to go than the other options.

It’s not a solid plan. But then, art follows life and the other way around, so what — exactly — did you expect? Nothing else but me fumbling my way through the dark, I hope. All I can think to do is paint some images upon the wall, and then probably fall asleep or down into a hole. Either way, let’s face it: it won’t be pretty.

But then, I’ve heard when you die you piss and shit yourself, anyway. So, I’m not after glamour here. I’m just going to acceptable. Passable. Manageable.

Like everything I’ve ever done.
No sense of where we’re going, only knowing and regretting it when we’re done. Wait, that’s not what I’m supposed to say. If anyone is going to listen, I better have a bright and positive spin. The future is full of opportunity, or some bullshit tripe like that.

How about this:
I have a high capacity for peace and love and positive things.
I have never hid in closets in the dark.
I have a smile on, even now.
It’s not sarcastic or cynical at all.


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