Guilty From Atrophy
This piece concentrates on the anxiety which occurs when one knows that they are in the wrong, but still cant do the right thing due to being to emotionally wounded at the time to actually make a literal attempt for positive change.
Fear broke into my day before I had the chance. NO choice. Comprehension just a mild rationalization at best. I’m nothing but a con artist fighting a revolution against truth.
I preach coaxing fault with such sadistic grace. However, the second restitution shows up for its entitled share, I flee the scene, only to break a just probation. Showing obvious lack of character, I realize that I’ve temporarily eluded what I believed the consequences to be. Easy, like Velcro shoes on Sunday, I am a coward again. Greeted with unspeakable regret, my hands out of habit, smash down through my pants pockets in route for a numbing prescription.
“Hey reader,
yes,
I am fucking talking to you!”
How do you cope with self doubt? Do you handle the grit of it in a timely fashion? How long does it take you? Do you feel truly confident with your evaluation into proactive deliberation? How often do you stay in confusion’s playground? Do you ride the Ferris Wheel of selfish spinning when you’re there?
I do.
I am.
I am.
I am doing it now.
Perching high above humility, I watch her cry. Looking down from the un-swinging cart, I morn for her. There she weeps, one arm covering her eyes, the other raised limply above her head. She holds her hand up into a windless sky. Begging with obvious disease, she grieves out loud. She and I both know that we are about to witness the death of hope. Why is humility even here? This mad, fucked up theme park is where I am, but there’s no need for her to be here. I don’t need to see this right now. I don’t need to feel for her. I can’t fucking help. I don’t know how. I hate her for doing this to me. And I hate her even more for not knowing that I’m here. Because even though she thinks she’s alone with no S.O.S. on the way, I am here, I just have no voice. I know what the definition of help is, but I do not know what verb to compliment it with. I cannot contribute action. I feel like cold soup offering nothing but a disgusting gesture. She’s not truly alone. Even on her worst fucking day, she isn’t as alone as I am.
Black crows with no eyes brand their imagery into the wallpaper of my taste. They screech bloody accapellas while souring towards my half dissolved awareness. I start sinking. Panic strikes the side of my gentle canoe. I am wounded too deep to tip. I will drown in no particular order. Not knowing when I really died and I’m still not completely sure that it hasn’t already happened. Even when faced with imminent death, I still don’t know the details.
In the last 5 minutes I buried Humility with a stolen shovel, died a death of confused impermanence, and yet I’m still here with no where to go, no choice to move, and all I can think about is what the next audience will look like when they walk past the Ferris Wheel. Will they point? When they laugh at me will I see it? I might not see their feedback, but even with eyes wide shut, I know. I know, after 30 fucking years, I know. I know my anger will rape the crowds potential. I know my tears will dry a red sun and I know exactly where I wish I wasn’t.
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