Time Wounds All Heals

There are those moments that are so overwhelming they cannot help themselves but to induce a deep state of mourning. Often it is nothing so tragic an event to warrant it, but a simple phrase or gesture, so seemingly benign as to completely and utterly discombobulate. Often I find myself without the wherewithal to go about business as usual. And so I retract and make myself small, an easily overlooked nuance.

This is not to say I go off into some deep dark cave and commence to wail about all the things I’ve lost, rather to the contrary. I find myself in these instances more often than not going about business as usual. A state which is not indicative I care less, just that I retract mentally and continue about my daily routines in a manner which lends to benevolence and commonality so as not to draw suspicions. I find it easier to process in a style that most would find, and have on the occasion I allow the observation, to find it jerky and to frighteningly out of sorts. I can move through the five stages of grief in as little as a day.

I am tragically adept at something no one should become so skilled at.

It is something I have come to deal with. Having skill sets no one wants. The irony in this is a priceless gem. Because the skills no one wants are almost always the ones they need – or will at some point, and so my advice is a hot commodity. I have the ability to see both sides of the issue clearly and argue the points for and against it. This lends logic to passion and passion to logic. Thus creating a conundrum of profound proportions.

And so I sit here, staring at this statement. A simple phrase which has no bearing upon my life or the rules and morals by which I gauge my everyday self –and yet the impact is severe. I am so unsure of what to do when I read this, the simple insecurity is a catastrophe in and of itself, and in the end the most I can do is hold steady and find myself amused. A heartrending find which no action I may take will undo or remedy and the best thing to do is merely ride it out. Breakwater.

I would like to tell the person that they are wrong or that they do not know of which they speak. However, I have no grounds to stand upon and thus no judgment to lend. So I find myself without a voice or a port in the storm. Time wounds all heals and if I wait just a bit longer the hemorrhage will ebb and dawdle or cease. And I have come to find I no longer mind the bleeding.

Attack of the Cat

It’s slow going here most days. The weather outside would be surprisingly warm tonight, if I didn’t live in Florida. One of the conveniences of living in a subtropical climate is the ability to go swimming almost completely year round, and often as late into the night as you’d like. Unfortunately, the only way for it to be this comfortably warm this late into the evening is by it being equally hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk by nine most mornings. In a state that spends nine months of the year in summer, we snow bunnies can be quite reluctant to enjoy the day.

I will not lie; I am a night owl by nature. Everyone that I can relate to in my family is a night owl. We may adjust ourselves to suit our jobs, school, etc – but make no mistake, the first opportunity we have to stay up until sunrise and we’re all over it like white on rice. We also benefit by being insomniacs, thus capable of running perfectly fine on as little as two hours of sleep.

This would seem irrelevant, excepting the fact that the town I reside within is almost completely diurnal. The tragedy of small cities. The danger in small cities and towns with night-owls is the ego. Oh sure, you might not think anything of it at first, “This is nice, quiet.” Sooner or later you’ve developed this whole “I own the night,” thing and start coming up with paranoid-delusional reasons as to why others are alert at such late hours. It seems oddly appropriate that most of these scenarios are made up while midnight trollings through Wal-Mart. By the way – if you are ever trapped there after two a.m.: Duct-tape Bowling.

This is a lot of meandering – and if you’ve happened by looking for a point I’m afraid you should call the game now, pack it in and go home.

I’m staring that the belly-button rings sitting on my desk just beneath my monitor. They’re nothing special, just large globular neon-pink marble acrylic balls. I love that you can find objects in various places for significant price differences. At Sally Beauty – they are $10 a piece, somewhere in the Market of Marion, I got them 3 for $10. Mix-n-match – imagine that.

If you ever get a chance, you should listen to Coast to Coast. I’m not sure if they’re affiliated, but they do have a website, and if you search hard enough online – which is to say not very hard at all – you’ll be able to find free broadcasts of the show without need of a radio. Just in case you are like some writers around here who only listen to the radio as a way to wake up in the morning.

I have come to the tragic conclusion that I just don’t want a job anymore. I neither care nor have the motivation to go out and seek one. Don’t get me wrong, I currently have a job which I love – the hours and pay are shite so I need to move on. But I don’t want a job. I want to write and do my art and get paid for it. Grants are hard to find unless you’ve been published as a writer, but I am avidly looking. And I am working at a double major in college to get some lame pays-the-bills shindig. I just don’t necessarily want it. And as my month of nearly paid vacation comes to a close, I find myself in mourning.

And to pack it all in, I’m not entirely sure if work is the only cause. It may just be I’m tired of here. Which is quite possible. The tragedy of being tired of where you live is the fact that most all of your friends and family are there. Abandonment has never been so complex.


Holy sh*t dude, I totally forgot I was in the middle of something. haha I went and altered the look on my dA and got to chatting with a friend and completely forgot what I was doing. So sorry to have forgotten you – but I suppose that’s where we’ll end it for now.

=^ ^=

Cantankerous Bitchings

Ok, seriously? I’m rather annoyed. I’m not sure if they’ve officially cancelled Defying Gravity or just put it on hold, but the fact that another network is cancelling a show I REALLY LIKE is starting to chap my ass. 2009 Officially Fucking Sucks. A year of awfulness. And what’s worse, is that it is nothing catastrophic. It’s all the minor little shit that fucking matters that has gone to hell.

Sometimes I wish I had a really crazy fan that would just go out and kneecap all the miserable fucks who’ve stolen my distractions away from me. Or curb stomp them. I’m not picky. I just want them to live in a horribly disfigured way forevers.

Cantankerous Bitchings

Tragically I’ve come up with a new subject for a book. It’s nightmarish. I’m not even halfway through – research and other mind you now, not written word per se – on three and now I want to jump on a new one. It’s totally awesome – at least in my head and so I’m super psyched to get started on it.

And to be sure, I’m thinking I might want to make it a Manga. So I’ll be sketching up character refs to see if that’s the direction I want to go for sure. It will probably take longer than any other project. Of course this might also lead me to doing it to the rest of them… How tragic. Ha!

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Is it just me – or do you want to skin the fucknut who created the McCafe commercials of epic annoyingness? And strangle at least half of the cast of Glee. The whore wife, the tramp cheerleader, the obsessive star, and Will – the spineless wimpy fop. Break their legs and beat them to death with them. I can’t decide if I love the show or hate it. Like picking at scabs – you know you really shouldn’t but there’s something to the sensation of digging a hole in your flesh.

People Put Ghosts To Shame

How is it, that when you’ve moved on from something that has changed who you are – whether the incident was Hiroshima or a sneeze in the path that is your life – it never wants to remain healed.
If you have a scar, which is a constant reminder – for better and worse – that that was something you lived through; then obviously you will never be the same. Whether the scar is literal, memories carved in flesh, or figurative, the gaping wounds of the soul.

I am tired of having the offender come upon me at a later date, only to find me fully healed. Perhaps not in the condition they left me in; no longer broken and bleeding and utterly unusable – or even recognizable. Not the person I was before – not that girl whole and safe again. New. New and tattered and worn weary, but here. Still strong and breathing and capable of my own thoughts.
I am tired of having them flay open the scars to prove they are there. I know they are there, and I am well aware of who the offenders are. I remember everything, right down to the flavor in my mouth. I remember the way you smelled and your tone of voice. I remember it with a vicious clarity that if I do more than pass over it, I realize that while the scar is there the healing has not finished. And though time will whittle that away, time never Never NEVER EVER, takes that pain away. It is the ghost you sleep with every night. Your shadow in the sun.
I remember how you abandoned me! I remember how you hated and ignored and pushed me away. I remember you not being there and getting no reason why. I remember breaking. I remember being alone when you said you would be there. I remember the way the lie tasted falling from those lips.

I remember hell.
I’ve been there more times than you can count.

I remember my eagerness to believe you. To trust you. So yes, if you will look just right here you will see that I have not forgotten you. Not forgotten the pain you caused for the slight, no matter how small. See, it’s here. Just so. This here is the impact you have made. So take it and leave me be.
And while I wish you would, I know you won’t.

You will peel back those silvery pink layers of flesh. Just to prove you can. And then you will dig out all those tenuous webs I strived so hard to make. Threads to forget you. Threads to remember who I am. Threads to reattach and reconnect myself.
And once it is clear that you have rent everything once repaired, you will destroy more. You will push through everything and beyond until it is so clear that the impact has left me horribly mangled I will never ever be even a remote glimpse of who I once was – no matter how much I loved myself or yours.

I am tired of choking on the blood. I am tired of not drowning. I want no more to gasp and clutch to a life where this is the next baited answer. And I am not asking for a life free from pain, merely a life free from the cheap shot.
I am tired of making the effort on my own. Tired of stitching up my own wounds. Tired of crying tears that only make the agony overwhelmingly inescapable. Tired of fighting to breathe.
I am tired of fighting battles I know I’ve lost.

So take your pounds of flesh, your gallons of blood. Take your solace in the victory you have won. Champion yourself and make merry with your comrades. Flash your metal armor and flaunt your mounts and be festive for you have murdered the dragon. You have slain the chimera. You have decimated the creature what mortal men fear.

But do not come back when you realize you weren’t as forthright in your efforts.

Some deaths are a long time coming.

Mourning Monsters

And I might be beautiful if it weren’t for all these scars. This rot ridden soul. Putrid and hateful.
No matter how deep the razor goes it just can’t reach what’s wrong. Because it’s everything. Every breath, beat, lash, cell. Every day, hour, moment. Curling out, up, in.

The only way to get out is to break out for good. Break down. Decay. Big bright red Cheshire grin. Sloppy jagged hunks of flesh sickeningly remindful of teeth gushing crimson vomit. And it’s all tumbling out now.
Worthless
Wasteful
Wicked
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
And if you ever did anything right they might love you.
If you cease. Cease to be. Think.

And if you could, please, just be a little less you. However, it really doesn’t seem to be worth my time, so why don’t you just continue on.

While you’re busy championing Jonathan Harker, I’m mourning Dracula.
And who is there to hold me while I lose control?
Who is there to ease the pain of loss?
Who is there to ease the heartache?
Who is there to tell me the sun will set and night will return once more?


Maybe they would be,
If you weren’t a Monster.

But then who would you be?

A Burning Brilliant Star

I saw you. In that moment I was a burning brilliant star. Something shining and new and beautiful. Something worthwhile. I blazed across the sky, a fierce stellate shooting across the heavens to show how dim the stars burned in stasis.

Symphonies ruptured the silence of a stillborn heart and life poured out and covered the soul. Life expressed its vitality in that ailing string. Resounding, overwhelming, cascading and invasive. Everything was right. Everything was sure. Conducive. An affirmation of a myriad of portents, omens and signs; fiercely drowning cataract.

First breath. First sight. Everything renewed, restored. Vigor. Palatable, sensual.


And you turned only to vanish. An aberration, illusion. Some vicious oasis in this desert wasteland. Destruction as beautiful as the creation.

If love is the master, hope is the apprentice.