Blackland: December 2011

Dec 30, 2011

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i begin to think at times that i might be one of the worst people on the planet. i know this isn't true. one of those strange fears left over from childhood. the bad habit of self-hate. there are plenty of people out there who are way worse than i could ever be but, still, i think it. i feel it. some sort of cold nausea of the heart. the pounding of such a sad organ. round and round we go, all this aching blood looking for an outlet, an outcry, some sort of solace from what the world is and what life has been.

i am such a fucking downer here. tis the season in so many ways. this white rectangle is my repository for all the bad little things i hide in real life. it is the precious receptacle of everything dirty and mean and whiny. i can be totally unattractive and completely loathsome here and the only punishment i can count on is that no one will read these words which, in this age, is a big blessing. who knows what the hell i'm trying to say anyway. this has become a death blog and i really don't know what that means or entails. i finished reading Close to the Knives and it was all so painful and beautiful and i thought that if i can at least outfit my friends in black sweaters and black banners and leave them with some interesting things to read before i die i will have done alright.

he writes: "i want to be untouchable and without need."

i writhe beneath such a sentence. i know exactly what he means and it makes my heart hurt. i want to feel such a deep, inconsolable void that pain doubles over itself like a somersault and spits out something beautiful and necessary. something beyond all this whining, all this conjecture, and hungry hands searching in the dark blankets for some amount of security.

i can't name the things i wrestle with. nouns have no power over them. still, i lean in toward the future with hopeful eyes like a child. such a big hope that i am blistered by it, radiant and expectant and willing to go on trying and working and struggling.