Crack of dawn monday morning musings….
I spent some time out and about tonight, doing my part-time gig, thinking about my life and the countless ways people tend to burden their ignorance in my lap.
I just got in from a long conversation with David, this old friend of mine from back in the Uncle Joe’s days. It was good talking to him, and realizing that a lot of my confusion wasn’t some amassed insecurity, but just plain, undeniable, and not something in need of justification to the masses.
When I grab his hips and ask him to cum in me, it’s the closest I get to having someone inside me. Anything growing inside me; that has been denied me. Like most things inside me these days, that, too, dies and becomes regurgitated into my body. My body spits on itself and spits itself out at a disgusting rate as of late.
I woke up the other morning trailing rivers of blood that were pumping with my nervous heart. I sat on the toilet and watched the blood run, tried to clean myself up, and soaked up the puddles that trailed me from the bedroom to the bathroom. He never got nervous, or thought me disgusting, shrugging it off to the blood thinners. Though something is inherently wrong inside my body. It hates me. Or maybe it hates my stretching to continue on. I will not let myself just stop without trying, but first it’s the heart, then the teeth, then the uterus.
My main metaphor is diseased. My heart which provides my body with blood, and my love that seeps outside the lines. My ability to procreate, or build myself anew through another, is paralyzed for life. I was adopted, and in my own personal knowledge of the struggle, I wanted to start over correctly this time.
My teeth which provide me with tools to nourishment also scream for a leave. I am hit every which way, and it still reminds me that at least my mind is intact.
I wonder sometimes as I sit on the train, watching some people stare, others laugh, how it must feel to be complete. I have found myself in a rubix cube type puzzle. The sides never match, the drives never meet, and certainly not for lack of effort but maybe something else. I saw this ghetto girl, ripe in pregnancy, breasts swelled, sitting next to the father on the train today. There was a pang of jealousy in my smile, and I hid it. I stare most of the time ahead. In situations, in dramas, I pretend I don’t see when the conclusion is all too clear. They laughed at me, and I stood there, looking painless, and thought about the process by which the best in people comes out. I suppose I can produce in different ways.
If I were to physically give life to the best in me, it would be a many thorned heart, complete with metal arms, scribed with the sun. My baby would give everyone hope, and renew my belief that sometimes the best things happen to the best people.
If it were a competition I have already lost. I cannot make anyone else feel what I feel. I suppose this is inherent in the human condition, measurements of success or destruction already mapped out for most. Even then it is all relative.
When I was younger I felt invincible, not the kind where you never think you will die. Somehow I always knew this, though I still remain highly uncomfortable with the prospect. If I were to put all my eggs in the basket of reincarnation, I will be surely pissed to come out in a world that gets increasingly fucked up with more human influence. I guess I just felt like I could do anything. I lied my way through an adolescence because I had to; there being no conceivable way to any other outcome. When I was grown up, or rather past the point of persecution, shit hit the fan in different ways. Instead of my mother’s fists and demeaning words it was my own body’s indifference to fairness, and unjust outcome to a life that has known mostly discomfort.
I hate the idea of self-pity, self-fulfilling prophecies, and wasted time. I spent such a great deal of time waiting for my time, and now I am left with little more than a few scraps of indignation.
Maybe I have little appreciation or compassion for most people in their most vulnerable conditions. It doesn’t mean I recant my observations about people only knowing their situations, their dramas, but more accurately I have so much on my plate these days, a single serving of someone else’s hell might be enough to throw me overboard.
I love, but I find that I hate a lot more lately. Negativity spurned by confusion doesn’t equal a decision towards a negative attitude.
To me, every emotion is imperative if I am to continue on with this game for a while. I don’t want to stop feeling, or hoping.
Just a pre-write of a little story I am working on. Sorry for the morbid factor. Sometimes it just has to come out….
