I feel like a child throwing a tantrum. Iím angry at God. Iím angry at life. More than all of that, Iím motherfucking angry at myself.
Blind and dead inside. Blind and dead. Blind and dead. Blind and cold stone dead, but for all of that, still I hurt so terribly.
If I were a liar, I could understand. Were I something less than who I am, I would understand. Blind truth be told, I hate you for everything that you wonít let me be. Is that childish? I hope so. I hope itís something identifiable, because then Iíd finally fit in somewhere. Wouldnít that be nice?
I canít change who I am. I canít put away the fact that I love as deeply and passionately as I do. I donít want to force myself to abandon the reality of my concern or my caring. I donít care what price you lay upon me for noncompliance, I will not lay my love to rest. I cannot, though it serves me thusfar only as a source of suffering.
If I were less than beautiful, I would be able to understand what, exactly, is so difficult to love about me. I could accept my impenetrable loneliness more readily. They come and they take, but they never love. I am ďdifferentĒ to them. I am beautiful in the manner that an object is beautiful. I am something to be stripped, gnawed, raped, plundered, emptied of all that Iím worth, only the dry husk left behind as a tattered memorial to what once was.
In a world of absolute selfishness, it is novel to find someone who will accept and care as human beings ought. Decency is scarce on this shit-caked rock that we call home. When the love-starved find it, they run to it and drink it up until the well runs dry. They crawl to the source, take their fill, and leave when they become strong enough to stand again. Humanity beckons. It is blessed. It sustains through trials. Still, between the scars and the terror; between the lessons and the expectations, there is, I think, no one left who really cares to honor it at all. No one. No one. No one. Drink from the well Ďtil the well runs dry and donít even bother pissing in it to fill it back up. Nothing. I am tired beyond reckoning and I cannot begin to properly convey it. I donít even know why Iím trying. Maybe itís just another unacknowledgeable cry for help in a world where the only voices that ever fall back are the mournful wails of my own hollow echoes returning to taunt me.
I walk through the day as a monster must. All hollow eyes and stilted gait. My smile is made up of tiny jerking muscles twitching loosely on the ends of invisible marionette strings. It exists only to provide protection from those who would consume whatís left of me should the pack detect my weaknessÖmy flagging spirit. I am old and tired. Illusion has been my sworn enemy for as long as I can remember. Now, it is my comfort, my security. If I walk erect and respond affirmatively, maybe they wonít notice. Survival instinct. Iíve rambled on about that before, havenít I? It is, I suppose, what keeps me from slumping into a corner and rolling up into a ball until the hurting stops. Here, it is the puppetmaster. In truth, I am nothing save the dancing wooden doll beneath.
I am so far away from you.
I love you. I do. And, in the end, you will pass on, too. Fall to the earth in the way that autumn leaves do. Fall and paint the world golden red. In time, I shall be among you also, finally belonging.
For some of us, it is the nature of the beast to give. What can make that so hard is the subconscious awareness of the takers lack of compassion for those they take from. There are so many that have a need for what is offered yet do not understand that what they receive is a gift. They seem to expect it and feel that your purpose is to provide what they need. It is they that drain the soul of the giver, especially when the giver is pummeled by the awareness of their presence.
Yet there are the exceptions to that rule, those that take yet know that what they have received is truly a gift. They know that you are a blessing and that what they have received is something to feel grateful for.
Some of these will gain enough from your giving to one day be able to give themselves and they will do so expecting nothing in return for the have already been compensated for what they give... by you.
No matter how small the percentage of those that I just spoke of, they should be enough to sustain you. They alone should keep the well from running dry.
That rare soul that I have given to that I find giving to others in turn has justified any and all that I have ever given to even the most undeserving.
For to have not given at all may have left that special someone unable to give when they were called upon and those they could not help may never have the ability to give themselves. And on and on.
That, I would not wish to consider.
Some of the very things I've been feeling but have not yet been able to verbalize, you have laid out in front of me. I cannot thank you enough for being you and for having put that up there for us. It seems that when I'm at my lowest and I can't find the words to express my feelings, you pop in and put up a few that say so much for yourself and for others who read them. So very many of those things you said, I have been trying to say. Some, I have said but there was, of course, no one to listen other than myself. Thanks, redguard.
Whenever you see someone struggling to be free,look in their eyes and you'll see me.
Whiskey is the anaesthetic for the wounded soul. Get a prescription from your local off-licence.
quote:I walk through the day as a monster must. All hollow eyes and stilted gait. My smile is made up of tiny jerking muscles twitching loosely on the ends of invisible marionette strings. It exists only to provide protection from those who would consume whatís left of me should the pack detect my weaknessÖmy flagging spirit. I am old and tired. Illusion has been my sworn enemy for as long as I can remember. Now, it is my comfort, my security. If I walk erect and respond affirmatively, maybe they wonít notice. Survival instinct.
I like this. If you don't mind, I think I'll steal it.
------------------------ A closed mouth gathers no feet.
I respect you immensely for your intellect, style, and passion. At times I harbor guilt for failing to abide unfailingly to my ideals as you can do. I have always respected your struggle and your pain, as much as I sympathize with it.
But today, your message said something different to me. I wonder how humanistic your endeavors truly are. For someone to be injured as deeply as you are, one must have great expectations that are betrayed or denied.
I have always thought that you were zen at heart: acceting of the situation, doing what you can where you can, not wasting energy or emotion in arenas with no potential. But I feel today that your drive to understand and preserve beauty is perhaps motivated by a desire to be seen as and preserved as beautiful. You seek other for self.
Your desires are left unfulfilled after your effort, thus your pain. Perhaps you should either not deny your individualized self-motivated desire to shape the world according to your wishes, or you could seek to absolve yourself of desire, forging a path of sublime acceptance on the path of righteousness.
Zen acceptance does not imply complacency or lack of compassion and love. It is more of becoming aware of our connection with universe in a way that allows us to fulfill our potential without suffering in the process.
This is not intended as a damning critique of you, Redguard. You know that I consider you a comrade, now and evermore. Because of our friendship, I feel secure in telling you my thoughts and perceptions, and do not fear being misunderstood. I do hope that you are around enough to continue this line of discussion.
This thing that I have placed before you is the result of my venting on a terribly negative series of relationships that I have become (somewhat "Melrose Place-ishly") involved in. Through the course of it all, I managed to hurt people who didn't deserve to be hurt. I managed to open myself up for perusal by total strangers who were, themselves, taken thoroughly aback by everything that they never expected to find within me. I managed to love, passionately (my drug and my addiction, perhaps). At the end of it, I am here...alone. Alone because I choose not to be anyone's crutch. Alone because I have yet to find ONE woman living who can fairly claim an honest sense of self esteem and self worth. Alone because possession of an object is far from equating to the honest love of an individual. Contrary to popular belief, the two are not the same.
One of the hardest things that I have ever had to reconcile in my long life is the idea that I have never been truly loved by anyone save my own mother. My mother, who sees me as a child yet and cannot know the complete story of my days. Oh, she knows quite a bit, but I think she still refuses to accept the grim realities, and chooses instead to regard me as a six-foot tall infant (A mother's privilege).
It is very hard for me to fathom the idea that I can remain unloved when, even in this place, I find so much beauty hidden away beneath the obscuring grime. I am beholden to the frail, the graceful, the bold and strong, (all beautiful) and I know my rightful place among them. This condition, this emotional exile if you will, flies wildly against my own sense of self esteem. There are moments, admittedly, when it all creeps in and casts a very cold shadow across my heart.
At the risk of being misinterpreted and sounding conceited, I am acutely aware of my uniqueness and value as a man, and as a human being in general. Unfortunately, I tend to be used more often than loved. Love. I crave only that I may someday have that precious gift returned to me. I pray every day that I may share it once more before I fail, but I am fast losing faith.
Hi. Thanks for writing. As always it is a great joy to read one of your responses to my meandering posts.
Many of the things that you have detailed in your post strike chords of recognition within me. In some ways, I suppose you could say that I have lead a very "Zen" styled life.
For some reason, however, I have never sacrificed passion in the house of love. For me, it is both a place to give reverence and a place to be revered. I think it should be a place where the beautiful is exalted and made grand, a place where every tiny profundity is recognized and explored. I cannot help but feel betrayed when, instead, I find that I have opened the doors not to an equal, but instead to a thief. One who takes without reciprocating. One who finds oneself out of place in golden halls. One who, instead, has mistaken an overdeveloped sense of desire for something far different, indeed.
I trust. That can never be a fault, but it can be a grave downfall. Alas...
I hope that you will forgive me my weakness.
Friends and comrades always,
[This message has been edited by redguard (edited 02-28-2001).]
Your response adds important perspective to what has transpired thus far.
My current analysis is thus: In your desire to find the love you most definitely have earned and deserve, you are rushing past the important building stages, throwing the doors opening and expecting those around your to receive you with open arms.
You know as well as I that the world that we live in is not defined in terms of trust and dependence on others, but walls and illussions to self and others. You are blinded by love, friend, not to a specific person per se, but by the desire to find someone to reciprocate the love that you offer.
I suspect that some of your betrayals have been honest betrayals inherent in any relationship built on letting someone into your heart. But I mention what I have in case that your recent spate of setbacks are due more to your pursuit of love than the practice thereof once found.
A watched pot never boils, friend. As unfortunate as it may be, you may be destined to pursue love unsuccessfully forever as long as you seek it. Let love you find you. Ending your active quest does not mean you are no longer looking. Look without seeking, search without aiming, let love find you when it is ready.
You cannot chase down a beautiful animal, but you can busy yourself with other pursuits until it decides to come and find you.
Relax my friend, and never give up hope. But a change in strategy may be due.
Redguard, I wish I could remember the name of the guy who used to post on SPF. I'd talked to him a little, and he was suffering from M.S. He had a big spiel on his website about what he called "emotional vampires," and it was quite thought-provoking. Hand-in-hand with your post, it makes me think there are more of them out there than I previously thought.
You've done a damn fine thing just now, something that I think many people are scared to accuse someone as capable as Mr. Redguard of. The best part, though, is that I know your observation is honest and derived from the same place, the same fire that gives Red his strength.
I don't know if our friendship has fallen into disrepair, if it has than I'm sorry.
Please, hear this:
Youíre not alone.
Stirring deep inside, the pit the core the essence of ourselves is on fire, burning through our vanities, our expectations, our fears, our youth the derision the insult the plague this undeniable, unrelenting fire consumes us is us and is represented by us to them but the message never works the message never arrived the message is never read and we hurt and ball up ourselves and fear the consequence of being different of feeling the shit of eating the shit of kissing the shit but the people keep on starving and our sacrifice is unnoticed and unheard but we are unrelenting and the fire this fire grows and the flames surge up towards our mind and our hands our feet our eyes become chimneys and the smoke this smoke this fire licks out through our body and crashes into the world with an honesty with a power that is so apparent so real so honest so just but is always passed off passed on into a past that no one will ever see with their heads in their asses with their heads in the dirt but we keep burning and they keep sleeping and we keep screaming and they keep hiding from something from someone from some reason from themselves and we try and tell them of this hope of this fire but they keep themselves locked up holed up and nothing we can do will help but nothing we can do will change this nothing will help them see us.
So we fight to see ourselves instead.
The fire is intense, the fire is us we are the fire the fire consumes us but we donít die we donít die we become another extension another piece of fuel for another round of despair but weíre not dead.
Weíre not dead.
Youíre not dead Mr. Redguard.
And theyíre only sleeping.
Let them sleep; let them sleep until thereís a good reason or cause or something for them to become to see to hear to feel to believe to wake up and to see this shit the sleepyheads donít drown they just sleep and the shit all around them means nothing.
Somethingís going to change break alter rip fall apart and become equal leveled honest patient fair.
For everyone, by everyone.
Youíre not alone. We can hear you scream, hear us scream.
My fingers scrape into to the dirt,
To bury self and with it hurt,
To abandon ideals that inflict pain,
To release my pride and become the same,
As all of you, without thought of care,
Your death and numbness with you I will share.
And so my suffering ends.
What once was unique is now obselete,
What once was alive is now dead at our feet,
What once was a light is extiguished from sight.
What once was admired is thrown from it's height.
And so you are like us,
We've consumed thee,
We are the careless creatures, ravenous beasts.
Searching for victims, looking for feasts.
Preying on souls, honest and bare.
And now we are starving cause no one's left here.
And so we perish unremembered,
Be not consumed Red. There is a temptation to allow it but in you there exists a greater will to fight it.
Remain the person we wish we could be. For our sakes.
No turkish prison can hold me. But you may for a price.
Actually, maybe a series of crappy lyrics and an exhortation isn't the best way to address the thoughts of an individual.
*Buys Red 5 shots of rye*
It won't remove the pain but it may take the edge off.
*Takes back the shots of rye*
Fuck that! You're better than that!
*Knocks back the shots of rye orders five more*
In factosmurfly I loove YOU brothor. *Hic*
Here. Take me home. I can't drive anywho.
*Thimble spends the night at Red's confessing all the shit the women have pulled on him*
And then my mom, The bitch! says she won't do my laundry no more cause I'm 28. Can you believes that? Scewed by my own mother..
No turkish prison can hold me. But you may for a price.
I wish I could be a poet. Feral, you have an eloquence, a manner, a gift that lets you paint in front of us but creates a backdoor for meaning to seep through. I can empathize with Redguard's plight, but I don't know his pain or his struggle.
But your words of sleeping through the flames hit me. I CAN identify with that. I have passion and desires to make the world a better place, but I struggle more with self-doubt and validity of purpose that perhaps you and Redguard.
I admire Red for getting to the point that he struggles with the sleeping sausages, roasting in their ignorance. I can't seem to convince myself it is worth trying for; instead I sit here and baste as I sleep in my own fire.
I once made a joke in chat about being the monk on the cover the Rage Against the Machine album cover; today I discovered 'tis no joke, but indirect awareness of who I am.
But all is not lost on me nor you. Together we will carry our flames to light the way, to disturb their slumber. And with Thimble pouring shots along the way, we're bound to have a good time doing it.