I don’t know what to say some days, but I guess I am flattered. Somehow the words come out, even when forced I know that the work in progress is way better than that other guy, the one I pretended was bulletproof, that was above everyone even though I crawled through the sewers. The days came and went, one malaise molasses moment after another, strung out over weeks, months, years, decades… nothing different other than I became a little less each day. A little less human, a little less spiritual, a little less caring. So it goes, right? Pretty normal fare for the addict. That diagnosis line, predictor of the future, summed up in a single word- progressive – that’s it in a nutshell. Things will always get worse. For every “How can I sink any lower?” I mutter, knowing there is an evil garden gnome, sadistic fairy, no, no dancing around the egg shells; let’s call it for what it is, God,who is just a prankster of epic cynical, sarcastic proportions, he answers, and I would normally hear it in visions, feel it in new modes of pain delivery. The typical answer was the clouds unleashed, soaked me on the beach, turned too hot into bone-rattling chill, and wrecked my place to sleep for the night by making it a collapsing bathtub instead of foxhole.
I am thankful it got so incredibly desperate, that the sheer, utter hopelessness of those final days pointed the way, a glowing neon spiritual compass to give me much needed direction, a path leading me home. I look forward to my today’s, even when the words are like arctic sludge, my mind can thaw out something.
Drip, drip. Think that one can go a couple of ways, but there is penicillin so at least everyone knows, all is not exactly right in the head, I just think that’s all funny, and I don’t have to live that like that today, so I will think about coffee, how instant coffee and me, we have this relationship, my muse, she doesn’t get angry when I get a Rockstar Fruit Punched (Kudos to this one, best tasting energy drink out there), or yes, even the ultra-slut, Redline, she of less than pure intentions, because she knows, she got me through that purgatory, she brought my head out of the fog when no one else was around. Then again, what did those who loved me see? I was never well, never whole, but I gave 100% of the 15% that existed in the vacuum of my best intentions.
Then again, the plip-plop could just be an annoying leak, something that might just need tightened, or turned off all the way, or maybe that slow leak is something bigger, after all, the A/C repair only lasted 4 days, yes, I am bitter that the roof over my head is hot, but thankful there is indeed a roof over my head. Back to the proverbial Achilles’ heel of life, the femme fatales, for those not familiar, like the wordpress dictionary, telling me I can’t spell:
an attractive and seductive woman, especially one who will ultimately bring disaster to a man who becomes involved with her.
Funny, don’t think they ruined me,ask them,pretty sure they might finally agree with me, they might offer a different perspective that I was a umm… malme fatale…yeah, that’s non-existent, but I know my role in the numerous demises. I fought for a word I knew nothing about, love. I wanted to pretend I had it, maybe the little bits of goodness inside me nourished the concept for a little while, but the same old disaster kept getting in our way, heroin always beat my self-conceived heroines. While I believe you are almost all doing so much better without me, I hope each knows that I remember the great times, and am thankful for the shot we took at a dream.
And now, because I am not feeling too creative, or want to avoid talking any more about past loves, the prologue from Shoestring Theories, my memoir that is just about ready for an editor with extreme patience to put the randomness of it all together into one cohesive bit of inspiration….wow…anyway, feedback is welcome:
This needle is loaded to kill, filled with heroin and cocaine. I can’t do this menagerie, the one dubbed reality anymore. 7 billion plus people and no one sees me. People stream by, no one would notice, even if I had something to say. My arms mirror my heart and soul, they have been torn apart, one deep track illuminates my sins. It’s made it this far, Old Faithful, and it needs to hold up one last time. I am over life. I have lived long enough to see a lot of the world, I’ve been enough women’s regrets, friends’ disappointments and family’s unyielding anguish. It’s time to go.
While this is the easy way out, let me guide your eye to the looking glass: it was the toughest road traveled to arrive at this pristine exit, so don’t judge me for doing this exit stage left, or would it be right? There’s been far too much pain, much of it self-inflicted, sure, but the dreamer inside me has been stuck on playing nightmares. So I can tell you a story, but it has to be brief. I have to push one last cure into my vein, and walk into the light.
How do fairy tales begin? To get one of those endings, it’s clear – Once upon a time…
That all said, life isn’t without plenty of trials, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t full of rewards too, even if I am waiting on my case of complimentary Redline, or Rockstar Punched, whoever gets the drop gets my consumption of aforementioned beverage.