Ghost lives in ghost houses

Sleep has become my favorite thing. That oblivion where reality no longer holds sway and I can make choices which have real and lasting impact. Where I am no longer bound by the rules of conventionality and can, finally, make the choices that matter most to me.

I used to read. Novel after novel. Several a week. I used to play PC games for hours and get lost in being the chooser. Master of my own destiny. Even if that destiny was to find soda cans and fight giant radioactive scorpions.

I feel like my world has narrowed down to wanting some future I am uncertain of. To saving money so that I can be alive at some future date.

When I was younger, I was completely certain of my expiration date. That the lifestyle I had chosen and the way I had chosen to be would most assuredly result in my life being over by the time I was thirty-five. So I squeezed life from every day. And lived in the hollow agony of some of those choices.
In the stillness, as if the world itself was hushed, waiting for my next choice. In the terrorizing beauty of living as if tomorrow was, at best, a distant horizon. Both inevitable and irrelevant.

Some of this is the waiting for a future. Some of this is the sheer uncertainty of life. Knowing that I’m, at most, one bad month from terrible consequences. Of losing everything I have gained.

And maybe that is the crux. I have something other than my life to lose. And truthfully I never put much value on that. So in oblivion I was free.

And so I sleep. And make money and work at making money. And play games to make money. Because, our world requires, it. Money for security. Money for freedom. Money for choices. Money for shelter. Money for food. Money for medicine. Money to help others. Money and money and money.

Trapped by the choices past me made. Living in the moment. As if tomorrow didn’t matter. Present me wants to yell at past me and say, “You idiot! You survive. With a few simple choices, you can make your future easy. A few less things now will secure a future that you cannot imagine. The one where you aren’t trapped. Where your cage is balsa and you can break it at any time.”

But I can’t do that. So I try to do that in the wreckage of past me. Try to shed the habits of spending money to make my day suck less. Try to invest and save. Try to pay off this shrinking mountain of debt.
And lament that my art. And my choices, all come down to money. Trading minutes of my life in exchange for the ability to live another day in the hopes that tomorrow I’ll be free.

The world is backwards and we have only ourselves to blame.

She who wakes my darkness will dwell forever in the light

Slip into desire
A breaking wave
A falling drop
Life disappears from the margins
Clawing into dreams
Holding onto purchase
That what may be in dreams may hold on
Long enough to be real
Conscious mind
Knows roads closed
Paths overgrown
Still a heart says maybe
Igniting kindling
Fires of need break
All thought but….
All thought fled
Replaced by maybe
Maybe and please
Your hand in mine
Never to part
A foolish dream that can’t help but live
Knowing the contours of a heart
Hands Pressing into the maze of you
Broken mirror hopes
Each reflection another chance to lose you
Each chance I’d take
For those few whiles you are mine before the end
Our jagged
Our broken
Complimentary pieces
Fitted together too late
My heart waits eternal
Saying someday
Saying wake beside me
In my arms
Safe
All hope lost
I know, I know
I fail, I fail
There is no thought that doesn’t contain you
My heart so foolish
To love and love and love
And never
Ever
Forget
That thin glass shard
Saying yes, yes this time

I am an obsession

I am an obsession
A candle made flesh
Fire builds to conflagration
Consuming
Consuming
Consuming
Until all flesh pulses
Desire waking
More
More
More
Never enough
Until all fuel is destroyed
And waking from the dream
Find myself alone
Bereft of her
Unable to see futures
Who would love destruction
Who would dare stand in fire

My version of a panic attack

My heart beats faster and the pain comes pouring out. The desire to end and the frantic need to be held and loved and told it will be all right. It’s my version of the more traditional panic attack. This shift to sudden sadness. And I need to isolate myself because I can feel the tears, the sobs coming and I can’t explain it without explaining everything I shouldn’t. All the secrets, all the truths that wait in the darkness, waiting to grab hold and twist their way out of me. That’s what it feels like. And I know that voice lies but it feels like truth. I feel so alone as my heart slams and the blood pulses. Just a touch from my love and it’ll quiet, but there’s been no one to do that in years. I’m just a broken doll. Discarded, discovered, then cast aside again for something better. There’s just this stretching of days and this nothing, this nothing, this nothing. Not enough to be loved, not enough for anyone. All chances fled. All hope denied. Not even sleep is a refuge when you remember your dreams.

Vacation time

This sad fool in motley granted fleeting asylum in the land of ease,
a creature of despair made mad by joy
Sits calmly in balance until revocation
Then despair works it’s way from bones and bleeds on the night air
Raw from soft living
Pain of the past hits like a wrecking ball
Demolishing the city rebuilt
from
Dreams remembering they are nightmares

Brutal introspection

I can never leave well enough alone. I always push, always want more than is there to be had. Some of that comes from a deep feeling that every person I truly care for is going to leave me. If they see the part of me they’ll hate, they’ll leave.  Or instead, I choose to associate with people who don’t want me, or are taken in some way.  Be it their own lives, their relational entanglements, or their mental state. And if, by some miracle, I find someone who likes me, I will push and push for more and more until they have no choice but to walk away or sacrifice their own sanity, which I’ll see and walk away to save them.  I don’t know how to stop this.  I think I’ve learned, each time and each time I fuck up.  Now, the fuck ups are all a little different. But, they are variations on the theme. The happier I am, the more likely I am to self sabotage.

The other part comes from seeing myself as a monster. For the things I’ve done and the things I’m capable of.  For who could love a monster, such as I.  And if you could, why? Pity? Martyrdom? I won’t have love from either. 

At the end of the day, I’m fucked up. And despite how much less fucked up I am now, as compared to when I started this journey, I still have a long road. A long road I fear I’ll never see the end of.

The day begins

This ponderous waiting, I realize that the day doesn’t begin until she is here. It exists in this anticipation but until she is here, it’s not enough. It is real but not worth its reality. I wonder how I will be when she, inevitably, leaves. The mere thought of without her, nearly brings me to tears. It physically hurts my heart. Yet, I feel safer pondering this as an inexorable collapse than to hold onto hope. Hope that we become something more than hanging out, hope that not just love blooms but that the relationship will work. I don’t want to give in to that fantasy. I don’t want to embrace what might be and never become. I also don’t want to to ever leave her side. It’s why I tell friends that I’m proper fucked. I can’t leave her. Don’t want to be without her. For whatever amount of with her that I am, I will accept. But I can’t stop from longing for more. It is that juxtaposition that makes me so lost.