My Emo Soul

I stare at the screen
Inside I am torn
I feel like I’m bleeding
But my flesh is whole
The words arriving dead
I sip the wine
And wish for death
Make it quick
Life is fleeting
I don’t want to grow old

Here’s to you the happy ones

Life is so sad. Time passing, faces and experiences fading, the relentlessness of nothingness leaning down hard. Usually there is a bright side of the melancholy, but today is all sad face. You happy people are lucky. …
… Hang on…
… Ok, I have a drink now. Here’s to you, the happy ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You’re still all going to die.

Run Search > Nothing Found

I live in a grey hole in the wall. To keep the outside out. Safe for now in the cool. Another day of existing comes to an end. I scrawl and dream. Digital etchings. My dead art to appease cynical senses, drowned in dry reds and bitter blacks. But every day I do because I must, while I know must is another mask of the absurd. No meaning, no hope, no faith or saviours. Just me and a dizzying regressions of blank searches.

I’m here because I can’t be anything else. A fixed-state particle descended from long guttered fires. Failing to change. Failing to see the point. I mimicked a changing being. I dragged about me the effects of the living. A simple beast of simple desires. Human make do. Human is appeased. Human is fulfilled. Human does not want to end.

I still feel the fallout raining down. Burning embers that mutate the rotting exterior. To expose the changeless form beneath. Every fabricated smile pushes me down another rung of that abyss. Pointless gestures growing to grotesque lies. But now I push the mind beyond the speed of sleep. A bombardment of sonic sensations and broken text designed to mislead and exhaust. When sleep finally catches hold I will be unaware. Free from relentless recursion a while, free to pretend it will be the last time.

A bleak wind was upon me this afternoon.

Smoking in the fog

So I’m currently located in a small rural town in NSW. This is where I was born. I have managed to have some fun since arriving, but I’m going to chalk that up to freak events. …but it isn’t so bad hear, out in the sticks. It’s a quiet night. The stars are bright and clouds are whispering by under a full moon. It’s some fine, relaxing shit, really. Earlier I caved and bought a pouch of tobacco, the first in well over a year, though I did buy a packet of cigs while eating and drinking my way around Sydney, a couple of weeks ago. Small vices make it all a little easier.

That first puff, and I could feel tightly wound structures deep in my brain unclenching. What now? I’m staying with family until I work out what I want to give a crap about and what I want to do about it. Most of me is dropping not so subtle hints we shouldn’t give fucks about anything. Disappear. Fade away. Admit we are nothing. Clip my wings to keep myself tame. Admit that such a position is not something we can abide. Or admit it is something we can abide?

This is the image of reality when lost deep in the foggy lands. Beyond the fog lies an all-encompassing maze of razors and shit. I’ve heard there are better ways to get from A to B. Damned if I know what they look like, or where they lie. I’ve been in that maze. I don’t want to go back. Looking at myself now, I’m looking at the same person I was at 16. To think I would be back here in the fog, where everything outside the fog looks like the lesser alternative to nothing. If that I had the strength to eat razors and kick down walls…

Fragments

Late-night emo sessions coming at ya! This was written several months back. Not much has changed.

It’s just me and the dark. Laying here, sprawled among the wasted shards. There’s nothing left to give me that little warm feeling. I have failed and I’m pushed right to the jagged edge of this little reality.

I’ve never been so close to absolute night. There’s nothing out there. Nothing for me. Pinpricks of light sail the silence. Little bubbles of light and life. Could I swim that far? Would they have me even if I did? I’m trapped in this vacuum tube and I’m running out of time. Once the glass brakes it’ll be drowning time.

I can feel the pressure rising, and it’s already imploding. I can already feel the shards tearing flesh. This life, my world, cutting me to pieces. Love and hope and little moments of condensed light, all tearing me apart in a slow inevitable concussion a lifetime long.

All I can do is close my eyes as the world I’ve known shatters, leaving me to the crushing depths. I know I’m drowning. And I know it’s my fault. I know I should have been bold. I should have been shrewd. I should have sold my little life whole-sale and went out to fight in that big bad void. I should have fought and killed. I should have kicked and stabbed and taken everything that could be torn free.

Now all I can do is sell this life a shard at a time. Pull theses frozen spikes from my flesh. Sell them at a bargain. Sell them to live another day, washed up on some alien stretch of void. Dream of the vacuum tube. No, instead dream of the glories that could have been – maybe what can still be achieved, if only I can hang onto enough of these burning fragments long enough to make it to the day. Dream of the day I can use what I still hold to make a fresh reality to burn away the dark and the pain.

Why A Perfect Circle’s “Passive” Describes My Relationship With Miss X

A dark and broody song, this was a favourite of this angsty teenager, and it was one of the first songs that conveyed the feelings I had about the apocalyptic breakup of my last relationship. As with any symbolism or metaphor, this song does not perfectly represent the situation, but it is as close as any song has been. Miss X, and many others in my life, would say that said relationship is so far gone and dead that there’s nothing to even be angry about now – nothing left to discuss or fight about, or for. But here I am, still just as and angry; still just as thirsty for answers.

Miss X is the woman I love and hate with equal strength. She is someone I always want to see, but if I came upon her a hundred-thousand years from now, it would still be too soon. Compound this issue with the fact we have a child together – yep she’s in my life for now and ever. She’s someone I would feel very conflicted about knowing they were having a bad and horrible life.

In this way she is a prime candidate to become my perfect enemy, but she has never faced me, never given me any answers – just walks away – just plays dead. This lack of closure is very disappointing. There is no conflict to pour the immensity of my deeply conflicted emotions into. I am now walking away in disgust. She is obviously better off keeping her reasons to herself, too afraid to face me and admit the truth. At the best, I can expect passive aggressive bullshit. So deeply unsatisfying from someone I care/d for so much.

I will certainly be better off for moving so far away, where she can’t rely on me to be there for her needs, while completely ignoring my own. You fucking disappoint me.

Now, regale me with your comments telling me to get over it.

Dead as dead can be
The doctor tells me
But I just can’t believe him
Ever the optimistic one
I’m sure of your ability
To become my perfect enemy

Wake up and face me
Don’t play dead ’cause maybe
Someday, I’ll walk away and say
You disappoint me
Maybe you’re better off this way

(The only answers I ever got amounted to nothing. The breakup is still a raw and bitter deal for me. To me it could have always been salvaged. Now I can’t even

Leanin’ over you here
Cold and catatonic
I catch a brief reflection
Of what you could and might have been
It’s your right and your ability
To become my perfect enemy

Wake up and face me
Don’t play dead ’cause maybe
Someday I’ll walk away and say
You disappoint me
Maybe you’re better off this way

Maybe you’re better off this way
Maybe you’re better off this way
Maybe you’re better off this way
You’re better off this
You’re better off this
Maybe you’re better off

Wake up and face me
Don’t play dead ’cause maybe
Someday I’ll walk away and say
You fuckin’ disappoint me
Maybe you’re better off this way

Go ahead and play dead
I know that you can hear this
Go ahead and play dead
Why can’t you turn and face me?
Why can’t you turn and face me?
Why can’t you turn and face me?
Why can’t you turn and face me?
You fuckin’ disappoint me

Passive, aggressive bullshit
Passive, aggressive bullshit
Passive, aggressive bullshit

Nightmare Spaces

I’m out of time and out of options. The walls are too near – closer upon every measure. Doors are closed and lights fading to null. It really shouldn’t worry me. A life spent lingering in the spaces between possibilities, sniffing at uncertainty, always knowing that ruin was inevitable. The best days were spent firing off riddles into the dark. Questions, statements, curiosities. Little flares placed to navigate the night lands, each a living sanctuary. Imperfectly made, usually incomplete. DNA unstable.

And now mutated horrors come back looking for me. My miserable little zombies, they have become. Unfulfilled. Hungry. Seeking. Stuck between the walls and the abortions of dreams, hideous refractions of the reality I wanted nothing of. Now I am a pathetic parody of my creations, and I know, deep down, they were always prophesy.

All refuge is comprised of nightmare spaces. My fellow travellers urge me into this one or that one, but one other door reopens. All know of its existence, but they dare not speak its name. It is a vilified space. It is cold and absolute, a one-way deal, but it proposes a personal redemption and an end to horror. There is no anxiety or despair or picking between nightmares. To gather up my mutated creations and enter the oblivion that was before time, or not, that is the final question.

Chemical meltdown synaptic style

Disembodied space, jacked in over low bandwidth remote. The meat still processes commands, performing languid functions. It sends vague impressions of touch, but it is only the music that comes in clear, as clear as medium quality MP3 and insufficient output allows.

I feel the brain sitting uncomfortably inside the bone prison. The flesh droops, eager to secede from the confederacy of structures that push ever on against gravity and logic. Retreat to the primordial sludge. None of the components are particularly happy with current relations, the enforced symbiotic cohabitation of systems. The microorganisms that inhabit the vast megastructure are entirely unaware of the potential crisis brewing. At least, that’s what one may assume. For all that is known the little bastards are holding emergency talks and think tanks on how to coerce life from the tired biological golem. Likely, they are drawing diagrams for plans to stimulate the lizard brain. And phase two, enforce crippling sanctions on the conflicted processes in the prefrontal cortex.

Well, let them gag and blind the executive! Airs of individuality. Thoughts and feeling and self. All noise! So here I am dreaming of shutting down amid all this wonderful, horrid and crippling noise. Let the executive head-butt its rubber stamp on everything. Just leave me out of it a while, to unload the cores. And be at null.

Above The Napalm

So I’m thinking about selling all my Earthly possessions and going on a pilgrimage to the bottom of the Pacific ocean. I’d prefer Mars, but hey, those are the breaks. Local… err… political tensions are forcing me to relocate yet again. Not sure where to go from here. Antarctica or the previously mentioned bottom of ocean or Mars would be perfect. Will do science for board and lodging. Put the word out!

Oh, why couldn’t I have been born rich to disappoint my parents in the search of meaning through art? Why be born to a caste where meaning is a state-proscribed luxury? You might not think it to look at my DA, but writing was always my first love. And that’s where I did all my biggest thinking. I love 3D too, but 3D has always offered more carrot. If I’m doomed to be an artist, it’s better to associate with 3D for a living than be a writer and get nothing but stick!

But then life seems to be more stick than carrot the last several years. Some good heights, but a hell of a lot of lows. Every day is a trial of existential puzzles. And I know I’m not alone here, but some people seem to be a lot more adept at dealing with the particularly nasty snares these puzzles contain. I guess I’m a sucker for the “let’s see what happens if I press this” approach. I know, more-or-less, what’s going to happen, but still… Optimist, masochist, or gambler by nature, you decide. Trying to be a normal human animal was the worst snare I triggered. The beautiful things that came from that are indeed majestic, but the suffering that comes fourth is the kind that keeps on giving, and in disproportionate orders.

Every day I suffer with the fallout of trying to be an ordinary human when I knew, deep down, that I was an irredeemable freak. From this I’ve learned that freaks can rarely change their spots, even if they really want to. Man, if only eternal sleep were as easy as saying, see ya later. Wipe it all away and see nothing, feel nothing, be nothing surrounded by nothing. So here I am, trapped on Spaceship Earth with my human cousins and fellow freaks. And I long for the company of my fellow freaks but here we all are just trying to get by, sniffing at all those existential mines that detonate like napalm.

Ah to be born rich and above the napalm. Where those mines are purely academic curiosities.