Enough bitterness. Enough enough. I have gone from railing history quoting bitter man to simple sad Paul, with heavy heart and limbs and world history swirled into oblivious hind brain like so much mauve paint. I just sold another painting. I have money now, and spent some of it on some new speakers, which allow me to induce with perfect and pure controllable inducements the mood I wish to enhance and hunger through. Though there is, unquestionably, something odd and hurtful, something spitefully cleanly sharply wrong with me, and my heart, my heart is broken, I find this liveable for right now once more. This morning I lay my head in my hands and sobbed out the exhaustion and pain, beat my desk and made my new speakers rattle, but there are always degrees and for now this one’s heat curves into acceptable, or should I say bearable…
“if love is a red dress, well hang me in rags.”
“if love is shelter, I’ll walk in the rain.”
And this is where I walk, edge walker, divine comedian. Though right now I don’t find anything funny. I should. There is always something funny, and I AM wearing pants with S A N E written down the side. You see, it is not just to reassure everyone, but because then I can be IN sane pants. PUNS. Fantastic, humour me, humour me, humour us as we skate into the night with our possible pasts blowing like prayer flags behind us.
“She stood in the doorway with a ghost of a smile.
Haunting her face like a cheap hotel sign.”
And time sickens me. Moments make me wretch with what they are, with their absolute sacrosanct inevitability. Make holes in the burning heart of God. I have people who do, directly, I know, pray for me. I hope that it makes a difference. Perhaps it does, perhaps not. Perhaps it is why I am still alive, and I can blame God for my suffering as I continue to live and rip through time like particles being torn to pieces on the edge of a black hole. Shiny with their last light, exploding outwards as they die. I feel like this.
When we succeed. Ah, yes… Tearing ourselves to pieces as we shine bright enough to scald our own eyes, extant awareness of the trap of atrophy that will swing me back to pain always, always. It is not true that what goes up must come down. It is true that a sine curve is forced upon us by the nature of life, of the universe. For every spike of brilliant brightness there WILL be an equal part, a disease of equality.
Wish Wish wish. Pray into the infinite dark, hold onto the sides of your mind and DON’T FUCKING SLIP. Some fissure in the void. Some smoke from the burning slide.
ache for it and break for it and make it your own carve yourself from your hurt twist from your convictions to cut into the light, and FORCE YOURSELF TO LOOK, peering frightened so desperately afraid… and maybe see finally your SELF. it isn’t your fault. it never was.