MIGRAINITY

I think I may have just gone nonlinear?

This diary, an exercise in self-pity. A realization of failure. A superhighway into the emptiness of my soul. A daydream inside a nightmare. A false sense of hope. A light switch for naseau. A sledgehammer of dumbness. A roadmap to nowhere. Engaged in an eternal firefight with my own mind. The underpinnings of terror, a vocabulary of despair. The concept of pain as a permanent thing. A constant. When every axiom eventually reveals itself as false the sun ceases to shine. It burns. Adieu.

I used to have stuff. Vinyl records, mementos, HI8 video tapes. I used to maintain certain ideals, specific truths which guided me, mantras of thought - yet somewhere along the line I started overusing commas (*self dep plug) (overusage of commas represents paralytic thinking, the inability to convey complex thought or rather a fear of failure in relation to creative pursuit). Now I have blank walls, barren tabletops, a toilet paper landscape surrounds me. My heart pumps bleach, a mind akin to a tire fire, commas set aflame (*self dep plug) (my persistant use of commas serves as a stark reminder to my perineal ineptitude and otherwise lack of creative ability) and when I cry my tears taste of glade plug-ins. This is surrealism, this is unadulterated agony, a story no one wants to read, life as a person of luke warm interest, my life on this planet, an earthbound hell. 

Dropping a big fuck you to myself and all associated parties related to ME and my being.

In a weird way I have arrived. Although I still experience intense swings of heightened paranoia and needlessly suffer myself with massive constructs of what-if failure fears, I have somehow managed to go mildly numb at times, even slightly indifferent to the omnipotent terror of existence which historically weighed upon me like a rusty steel blanket. A deadening of the mind of sorts. An inadvertent dumbness. 

Perhaps there are too many COMMAS in use around here

RED ELVIS

Faked enough days to string together something
Resembling a moment, a semblance so touching
Take note
Of the cracks inside my heart 
And the lumps inside my throat
Waiting for the shoe to drop
Waiting for these blues to rot 

Told a many tales, told of lazy fabrications
A new version of me, the latest recreation
Take note
Of the tears inside my eyes
And the knots atop the rope
Waiting for the shoe to drop
Waiting for these blues to rot

I guess Ill rejoin the blogging ranks of blogmerica. Casual typing, Im just doing a little mind writing, not really thinking about what I’m saying just putting it down right now. Something parasitic HA I guess my drive to write is sourced in that floating lump in the center of my chest, the one that flexes tightly with each dumb thought of self-pity, every spark of doubt, with seething hatred bleeding out of my pores and now my eyeballs feel like calcified poultry no scratch that, my eyeballs feel like varnished shallots. I am dumber now than ever. Social conditioning, all motivations based solely in fear. Clown without a mask. Just another clown. A sad, pathetic clown. 

Sick of mediocrity. People - fuck. No need to try, WHY would we? Pleasure automation, questing for stimulation, goals eroded to arms length musterings, I came to in the middle of the night clicking my ipod angrily at the tv, surrounded by plastic bottles of water, a ball of gravity strobing rapidly inside my gut. Am I looking out with my eyes, projecting a reality constructed within my mind into a field of vision, or am I taking in the world as a vacuum to light, my own pupils tiny twin black holes, consuming matter in an insatiable purge of FEED ME?  Give unto me this world, as I know the universe needs me, for without my desires, who does it serve…but the emptiness of itself. I bang the living shit out of melancholiac 80’s pop, and it means absolutely nothing. It never did.

Dead

Gotta be grateful
Gotta be thankful
As we descend into chaos
A sea of flannel
A pile of animals

Redwood Grove did a number on me
Can’t stand my own thoughts
Yet all I want to do is hear myself talk
Redwood Grove nothing but a memory

I lay in wait
Getting high off the pen that X’s out the date
On the nod
Dripping clocks on the wall, hold the applause
Maddening
Burst into tears thinking “this isn’t happening”