pb

my soft-friends have been looming large in my mind upon waking over the last few days. this can only mean, naturally, i've been dreaming of them. as much as i would love to, however, i can't seem to recall enough details to make a full-blown fantasy out of them. i have but vague impressions and back-filled personalities which create a low-level sort of longing in my chest that i just can't quite identify enough of to be any use in assuaging it. hence, i go through the motions of waking and being alive with this seemingly empty hole in me which no amount of narcissistic moping and overthinking can fill.

i have, as it were, been feeling a bit more literate of late-- which of course serves to delight the delusion to no end and thus make it all worthwhile and perhaps not so futile.

i love that you get me. i love that you see me as an exquisitely pained, strange creature. i love that you see the grey in me and call it beautiful. i love that i can weaken your knees and render you speechless----or have you read and witness and just not say anything at all. this medium lends so much more...more...attention to mine and others' unworthy scribbling. it is light-years ahead of dusty, full notebooks which gather moisture like they do anonymity through the passage of time and neglect.

i'm pasting my previous journal below in an effort to air myself out a bit. i want to bring you into my sometimes warm, love filled meadow-mind as well as into my sometimes cold, frightening morgue-mind and show you what lies cooling under this bloodstained sheet------

i'd stick around for something quite peculiar, but i've got no time for private consultation under the milky way tonight.





--pb

music: massive attack, smalltime shot away
book: none



-------------------------------------------------

i walk a razor thin line every moment, dreaming and living between mindless, killing despair and cautious, blind optimism. i feel every moment like a shank to the kidneys. i feel time slipping past with no way of holding the now like dust in my palm. i can feel my youth draining away into the chasm that is the enormity of the world and its infinite possibilities of desolation and happiness.

one of my selves swings betwixt despair and optimism. another slips with alarming ease in and out of bloodblack rage, careless violence...only to awake into a moment of such intense compassion and tenderness that i feel my knees near collaspe with emotion and wayward, unfocused love.

sometimes i see myself floating above a world burning to ashes amid inhuman screams, like a painting of Dante's Inferno-----only to then sign up to be a kitten foster parent or take time from work to tutor kids in reading at the local ghetto elementry school because the teachers are overwhelmed and underpaid.

i bang iron around in the gym to vent the rage. i pain myself to forced relaxation in yoga class to forget my internal tears at the myriad hurts in the world around me. i read incessantly to take my empty love and put it somewhere fantastical. i run the neighborhood streets with sweat pouring from the wounds inflicted on myself, trying to notice the beauty around me and the content lives and loves in those houses in hopes one day i will be the one sitting in that lighted window amidst the love of my life and our little corner of the universe, where we cultivate answers to lonliness.

constantly, inevitably, i contradict my several selves---i live, long, laugh, love, lust, languish, lament, labor, strain, strive, struggle---- i die every moment and puke myself back into loved existance.


my internal knife edge existence is killing me one day at a time...and i wouldn't have it any other way.

hug me hate me kiss me love me cut me fuck me shake me miss me kill me. its all the same. its life.