Month: April 2016

Only the Lonely

_16 FB beginning tubBalmy; humid; utterly miserable – this motel bathroom suffices more accurately as a tropical torture chamber.  My body lies, awkwardly twisted and face up, at the base of the tub which, for all intents and purposes, is shedding some living insight into what it might be like lying in a coffin – the final resting place for my forever tortured and disconnected soul.  Steaming hot water rains down on me, concurrently generating a dense, cheap lavender smelling haze which renders it even futile to make out the battered, decaying tile despairingly clinging to the walls; there they hope to remain, holding on for dear life and overseeing my predominately lifeless body; the random gaps in between illustrate comrades not adequately spirited to endure the torment of their rather trite existence.  I unpropitiously stay behind, sprawled out and conquered, resenting their ability to irrevocably let go.    

It’s the loneliest place in the world; the most disengaged and isolated I’ve ever felt from reality or life itself – including all the self-created drivel and mendacity that even I had naïvely bought into as authentic over the years; my head just as clogged and clouded with confusion between the factual and the fraudulent as this hell hole is overrun by the fabricated tropical steam produced from that rusting piece of water-bearing metal protruding from the wall far above.  No matter what I do or how far down I sink into oblivion, I cannot, for the life of me, get to that place where I no longer exist, where everything is nothing – the sentence I crave for an eternity lost in the black.

24b34492dd28b994fb14f03aa5f50962The notion and idea of resilience is, well, annoying – especially as I despairingly lay, hopeless and spiritually shattered, at death’s door in the tub of my room at motel hell; although I’ve knocked many times, I have yet to be graciously greeted by those on the other side.  My body wishes to carry forth, but my mind and spirit are ready to concede.  I cannot comprehend why the reaper maliciously skulks all around me, but ceases to ever grant me admission into its world.  To me, the greatest lie ever told is not convincing the world that Lucipher doesn’t live amongst us in the shadows, it’s that entrance into his kingdom of Hell down below is widely believed and accepted to be worse than remaining forced to endure here on Earth one more day. 

Thoughts incessantly race through my mind; how outside these incarcerating walls, folks are happy, joyous, and free, going about their day and basking under the sun – or how some of them must be actors as well, tirelessly going through the motions as I so often do; what my kids are doing at this exact moment and how the woman I counted on to be there, betrayed me and wishes to evict my existence from their youthful, collective consciousness; I wish I could shoot the fucking sun out of the sky and damn everyone to witness eternal darkness, as if finally seeing the world through my dismal, ill-fated eyes would be the end-all-be-all, that suddenly everyone would finally understand; I wish my body would allow me to ingest more of that mind numbing potion, but it continues rejecting any of my thwarted attempts; it won’t allow me passage back to the black.  I think about ordering a lady of the night to get me out of myself temporarily, but I can’t handle anybody seeing me in this dire a condition, paid or otherwise; besides, my wallet is now devoid of any currency due to the, “who knows how long”, bender I am currently and barely living through.  I miserably attempt to rub one out, but even that, my body states, is a temporary escape that will not be rewarded.  Resilience; yeah, it’s a bitch.

dc87bb9377d7c360a0da67c4a518bb5eMy body aches; I can’t muster up enough strength to stray away from this desolate tub of torment; I don’t deserve to depart from it’s rigid, wet porcelain shell anyway – the sheer will to carry on plays no role in my immediate, cognitively distorted mind, nor does it appear to be an undertaking I’ll be in pursuit of anytime in the near future.  Microscopic bullets of water ceaselessly pummel my face as they ricochet off what’s been collecting in the bottom of my makeshift casket.  Through the suffocating mist and dim glow of flickering light, silhouettes of bath towel demons lurk, seemingly floating and motionless in mid-air, patiently waiting for the moment they can finally carry me away; whether or not visible to the naked eye, these spirits of the darkness perpetually tail my every move; making their presence known through various incarnations and dialing, intrusively, into my every fleeting thought.  I meditate over the probability of whether or not they know I’m thinking they can go fuck themselves for perpetually prolonging my suffering.  I ponder whether I will, in fact, ever make it out of this tub alive. 

The sociopathic tendencies I periodically exhibited throughout various aspects of my life and relationships started to make me wonder if I was devoid of any feeling or emotion at all, but in my brief and far between moments of clarity, I knew that could not be the case.  I knew I wouldn’t consistently crave a substance that makes feelings and emotions disappear if I was not aware of them to begin with.  I started to think quite the opposite at that juncture, that maybe my feelings and emotions were so intense, so real and so bold, that I didn’t know how else to handle them besides stuffing them deep within or forcing them out altogether through use of mind-altering chemicals – the first solution that seemed to work regarding my issue of an overwhelming amount of passion and unrelenting remarks from the heart.  Maybe every emotion I have been exposed to over this lifetime has been felt at an abnormally extreme level – maybe I love too much, admire too much, and care too much; maybe I feel overpowering senses of enjoyment and euphoria.  Maybe, this too, would insinuate that I feel inordinate amounts of hate, disgust, jealousy, fear and insecurity; that I cannot have one extreme without the other; that if I blot out the negative, I am also eclipsing the positive; that I would have to set forth on a journey to understand myself, my emotions, and how to create a healthy balance if I ever wanted to evade a life ensnared and alone in the bottom of dingy motel bathtubs.    

Chameleon Conformist

uV6xNNqXkK7htQ8L6QmFTJUrThe chameleon conformist; he vigilantly adjusts and positions a colorful smoke screen for the world to see; a front for the purpose of carrying out his personal agenda; he acts in accordance with societal norms to mislead the naked, unsuspecting eye.  He is, in all truth, completely anti-social to the core while in the privacy of the unremitting darkness that plagues him; a place the devil himself would even feel uneasy.  Behind the smoke lives the shell of man who appears to have it all; behind the smoke lies an empty void yearning for fulfilment.  This man aversely survives, lifeless on the inside; hollow; robotic and pre-programmed to carry out essential obligations to preserve the sickness holding him hostage; the sickness that is continuously at liberty to haphazardly course all throughout the captivity of his veins.

His primary objective never changes color; he is the non-conformist in regards to the pre-destined arrival of his daily escape – his outward conformity allocates the sustainability of his interior rebellion – his daily mission never waivers off course; he blends into the background the same way a chameleon would elude its fierce hunter; he doesn’t wish to be seen; he doesn’t hope to be heard – the world and its incessant vexation gradually drifts from his consciousness as he irrevocably ingests the pernicious remedy, subsequently releasing a distorted sentiment of well-being and an immensely sought after sigh of alleviation.

conformity_by_vicodininjaThe first layer and most prominent color on his suit of acquiescence is green; the green of a rewarding and gainful career which serves as the lifeline to the truth of his darkness; it’s the glue that binds together the whole charade and paves the way for its continual operation; without it, he is vulnerable and exposed; without it, the authentic blackness of all his little carefully crafted designs are open for the world to see; credibility eradicated; reputation wrecked.  The green of greed invites envy into the mix; he wishes to be anyone other than himself; he fantasizes about what it would be like to have it all – the big house with an ocean view, a luxury vehicle for each day of the week, a multitude of women just a phone call away and ever-lasting freedom to do as his little, black heart desires; he presumes that would be the answer to his issue of contentment, but somewhere deep down in his being he knows he would only crave still more; all the water in the world isn’t enough to satisfy an unquenchable thirst. 

Anticipating its moment to shine through the voracious green exterior is the second in his array of covert defense layers; it’s soaked a deep blood red; a red labeling his path of destruction, his internal anger, and the emotional damage to all those he crossed paths with along the way; it’s his defense mechanism to keep others at a distance; a warning not to approach; it keeps him locked in a little box all alone – his safety net; he unknowingly becomes a ticking time bomb; he craves human connection, but in his mind, the risk outweighs the reward – the thought of rejection or abandonment is too overwhelming to handle; so he just sits silently by his lonesome as the world keeps spinning; life passes him by; he can’t get in the mix; the torture is unbearable; he intensely prays for it to be over – his prayers for relief are answered; the answer is no; the heinous cycle continues with no end in sight.

The yellow of his deceit and deception is prepared to reveal itself directly underneath the blood-soaked red of desolation.  It’s how he maneuvers his way through the daily grind of a dilapidated existence; dodging and weaving, he meticulously spins a web of lies around himself; a shield built to protect how he thinks his world should work and what all the players in it need to comply with to best suit the motives of his self-interest.  He becomes trapped in his head between the worlds of wanting to be left alone or forgotten and yearning to be endeared or understood.  Building up these falsities becomes his only purpose for waking up in the morning; he has to maintain the madness created in desperate attempts to fit in; he has to nourish the misrepresentations generated during his trials and tribulations to fill up and seal the emptiness perpetually lingering inside.  The way he goes about it never changes; he never redirects off course.  It’s always been a losing battle, yet he chases after the idea of fulfillment nevertheless.  Insanity interpreted.

9Tpoj6XTEDeep and sheltered in the core of his being lives black; the black he painstakingly attempts to conceal from the world time and time again; the blackness of his cold, tarnished heart and the darkness it constructs, spreading throughout every facet of his life with the zest and insidiousness of an infectious disease.  Its power and authority is unmatched; surreptitiously he meanders about; he feels most comfortable traversing through the cover of night, protected under its blanket and veiled by his matching cloak.  In the darkness he is his genuine self; stripped down and bare to the bone; in black he is a man using every resource at his disposal to hold himself together as he inescapably falls apart…