so I finally flushed it out of my system, for now
that whole self-apathy self pity kick I have been on for the past 4 years is officially ending. I started writing a little more again lately, and I am flushing all of the discussions, discussed many times over, out of my system. At the bottom is a picture of me at my happiest, looking like an ass…hahahahah.
I crush my cigarette out, watch the lingering stream of smoke curl upwards. I hate it when my cigarette keeps going, fueled by some unseen annoying curse. Sometimes I stick my fingers back in the ashtray, grab another butt, crush it out and hope that the curse will deaden under the force of my push.
My fingers linger over the relief map that is my body, my stomach marked in trails, white keloided staples splitting my rib, traveling up and around to my shoulder blade. My sternum is a braille tale of pain, wire and bone twisted, knotted into screams never uttered, trauma unspoken. I have this tube like a chinese finger trap up the side of my body. It curls under my armpit in an elipse, a metaphor for infinity. My legs seem to be kept on with the light pink slashes that were the result of the heart-lung machine. Three times to pump and breathe for me. My back is a mirror of shoulder pieces, dotted with the buttons, literally bumped up, arranged in some haphazard manner.
I have tried to discredit the value my body has on my life, but if you were to trade the pieces for money, you could buy a house in the hamptons like my surgeons probably have. My mind dances in daydreams, wishing and wanting, pushing not to feel. My mind is the only whole part of me anymore, but even parts of that seem to flake off, drain into a dream catcher, saved to be opened later.
People are inherently, at their animal core, utterly selfish.When I was sick in the hospital there were many people who claimed that the trauma of seeing me in such a condition was too much for them, like if they saw it they would feel the sting of tears, feel the weight of the cast on their skin, feel the pull of the stitches and staples, the curling of the chest tube as it was pulled from my body. The thing everyone seemed to forget then was the simple fact that, just as they had walked in, they could walk out. No such promises were ever made to me.
It is difficult for me to foresake people, not to help them when help is obviously needed. Taking people for granted is one of the most horrid crimes of complacency, and seems to occur more or less in most instances of aggravated selfishness. I saw what petty disclosures of discontent and disgust did to relationships then, and even now the ramifications seem clear.
I’m not sure what role destiny, kharma and fate have to do with anything that happens. Sometimes I am more inclined to believe that destiny is a belief people have to justify their end, be it fortunate or infortunate. I always question these beliefs with the idea that, if that thing were not to happen, then something would, and the whole line of belief would be justified in just its existence. Things are to be believed because they happen. If we lived in a stagnant state of affairs then life would be fairly redundant, and there would be no point in discussing any of it at all.
Hope is something that I cling to, sometimes ashamed, wondering what any of it means. I wish I could attribute the unknowns to kharma or destiny and just hope that all of the good I have spit out will someday come back knocking on my door, and give me some peace. I have roped my life around its neck, not stopping, not letting my dream catcher go, just patient, just aggressive, just passive, just wondering, just seeing, just seething. There is some cosmic misorder to the way things happen, fractalled energy mirrored, repeating, breaking, until, for a select few, the train jumps the tracks. I have so much love, so much to see, touch, feel, understand. I can’t wait to have my mind buried in books, sweating papers, fingers curled tight around pencils. I can’t wait to be awestruck by monuments, clinging to smells, blinded by the rush. I want to dream out of tight spaces, and have my own life, make my own choices, and fall into laughter. There is so much that I want, but the seed of its beginning is just the clicking heart buried under all the bullshit.
I’m not a victim ignorance. My value in this life has been largely unexplored, my value of life has been largely misinterpreted. I don’t sustain the ego to discern the overimportance of my own existence, but the miracle of life has been extended to me three times.
Luck is something I don’t necessarily believe in as a concrete reality, and perhaps I don’t relate it to my own experiences, but when brought outside of my own circumstances, such fortunes seem to be nothing else. Bad luck on the other hand, seems to befall in the instance of just terrible lines of occurences, out of the control of the holder, out of the control of desire. Good luck is the same, not to be planned, not to be “taken advantage of”. I believe it just chooses its recepients less carefully. Most people I know who have had fortune befall them are not whom I would call good people. I wouldn’t even call them all that bright. They were just manipulative enough to pull out the good energy in things and steal it for themselves.
to be continued….
