It's true, I like to find some sappy point in every turn of circumstance. Who gives a fuck? The other side of me wants to spit in the face of every shit head yuppy that walks across my path without saying excuse me. I could give an extra half a rat's ass about what people think of me. I notice how people take advantage of vulnerability. They crave an opportunity to pull you into their lonely world so they can give you advice. It's as if you need to listen to them in order to save yourself from whatever dilemma is at hand. How the fuck you gonna tell me shit when you ain't got a pot to piss in? Don't mistake my often "sentimental journey" for being weak minded.
There's parts of me I withhold for good reason. You can't run around jawing people and stay out of prison. However, let it be known, there are people in my life that I walk away from daily just so I can be present for my daughter. A quiet man just might have secrets. Sometimes silence is a warning. Some people don't realize how fucking disrespectful they really are. They drop little comments here and there in an attempt to dominate their fellows, to prove their superiority especially when you're down. They should be more careful where they step. Unfortunately, there's an Eddie Haskel in every social circle. They smile, kiss your ass, or pretend to pity you while talking shit out the side of their mouth. This is why asking for help can be a tricky thing. All I can say is, watch closely, while you're busy running your mealy mouth I'll be proving why I never needed your advice in the first god damn place.
A quiet rage resists adversity. It burns much slower. It weighs the risks. It survives. Stronger from the timber of calculation, a thinking man can save himself and all he loves by conscious inaction. From where I sit, I can see all the cards. So, don't fuck with me.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
Tired of Rambling
I remember how she told a story. She never left out the grit. She was so clear, so sober. I read in a psych course years ago about how someone that is lying will avert their eyes when they speak. Bright blue and gleaming, her eyes never wavered. She could face a room and look straight into a crowd with hardly a nod. This woman will always be a hero of mine. At one point in her life she was a practicing drunk and a prostitute. After hitching a ride on the water wagon, some years after she became a lawyer.
She always spoke about redemption without dogma. For her, there was only one chance to recover and it didn't include making herself a moral authority. Oddly enough, when she spoke about her shortcomings, it made me feel less alone with my own. Morality is poison to a sick and drowning man, especially If you've already failed. When the guilt of all your mistakes is pulling you to the bottom of a murky pool, it makes no sense to sit on the rocks below re-reading each broken commandment. There comes a time to let go of the fragments and swim for all you're worth. My hero, this anonymous woman, she taught me how to fight for things that make sense. When things get difficult, I try and remember the things she told me. She said things like "You can fall apart and live to tell the tale" and "If we can't see into the future, there's no sense being unhappy about things that may or may not ever happen".
Now is one of those times where I need all the wisdom I can possibly recall. This uncertainty I see ahead makes me want to run for home. Maybe I should? I still don't know who I am or where I'm supposed to be and that scares me. How many times can a person start over? Does there come a time when passion must take a back seat to conformity? If this is true, there must never have been any magic in the world to begin with. I can't stomach thinking that happiness isn't meant to last or that it's only meant for a special few. I hate questions that beg questions. Somewhere in the sharp and tumbling mess of my currently overworked mind, there's a private rebellion taking place. It's late here and I'm alone. I've been here before, like a soldier in a quiet house, pacing with a waking nightmare while the world sleeps. The words upon this paper have become my place to fight, the strength that grants me the agency to overcome the long walk to daybreak. If I can just fill the page, I will survive. If I survive, my hero was right, YOU CAN "fall apart and live to tell the tale".
What I wouldn't give to fall apart in a familiar Pink house on an old dirty chair. I know he's gone but I can see Jon-Paul's face welcoming me home. Such comfort lies where family makes the bed and I just need some rest. I miss you Austin. I miss MY people! It's taken me a year just to say...I just want to come home.
She always spoke about redemption without dogma. For her, there was only one chance to recover and it didn't include making herself a moral authority. Oddly enough, when she spoke about her shortcomings, it made me feel less alone with my own. Morality is poison to a sick and drowning man, especially If you've already failed. When the guilt of all your mistakes is pulling you to the bottom of a murky pool, it makes no sense to sit on the rocks below re-reading each broken commandment. There comes a time to let go of the fragments and swim for all you're worth. My hero, this anonymous woman, she taught me how to fight for things that make sense. When things get difficult, I try and remember the things she told me. She said things like "You can fall apart and live to tell the tale" and "If we can't see into the future, there's no sense being unhappy about things that may or may not ever happen".
Now is one of those times where I need all the wisdom I can possibly recall. This uncertainty I see ahead makes me want to run for home. Maybe I should? I still don't know who I am or where I'm supposed to be and that scares me. How many times can a person start over? Does there come a time when passion must take a back seat to conformity? If this is true, there must never have been any magic in the world to begin with. I can't stomach thinking that happiness isn't meant to last or that it's only meant for a special few. I hate questions that beg questions. Somewhere in the sharp and tumbling mess of my currently overworked mind, there's a private rebellion taking place. It's late here and I'm alone. I've been here before, like a soldier in a quiet house, pacing with a waking nightmare while the world sleeps. The words upon this paper have become my place to fight, the strength that grants me the agency to overcome the long walk to daybreak. If I can just fill the page, I will survive. If I survive, my hero was right, YOU CAN "fall apart and live to tell the tale".
What I wouldn't give to fall apart in a familiar Pink house on an old dirty chair. I know he's gone but I can see Jon-Paul's face welcoming me home. Such comfort lies where family makes the bed and I just need some rest. I miss you Austin. I miss MY people! It's taken me a year just to say...I just want to come home.
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