raybear | (no subject)

bodies are failing, are faltering, but we, those who inhabit them, are in some ways perfect. stop trying to fix yourself. you are not broken. what of manifestos and authorities and why do we keep giving ourselves away to everyone in the hopes that they will give it back good, when we are already good, and beautiful, and time winds around us and wrings our neck and a months can be a night and a night on the couch can be infinity and i missed the sunset while getting a cup of water and i was angry, i was sad, and i couldn't tell myself well there's always tomorrow because what if there's not and i missed today because i needed a fork. i want hallowed halls to walk down everyday and maybe the subway tunnel is and today i had to define the word waylaid and felt slightly embarassed on both of our behalves -- why is that? why does it matter that they do not know something that i do? especially since i sort of told them wrong what it meant. even though i used it correctly in the initial sentence that prompted the question in the first place. strange. not the first time my brain has outsmarted me. a coil aftershock springs out and suddenly i go from hazed walking down a white walled hallway to the grit steely sparked rails of a way home, a way out, a way to travel that in another century from now will be obsolete like me, unless i'm lucky but can that matter here in this moment or is that only to pass the time when drunk, really drunk, on either whiskey or luck or tiny white pills under my tongue i wait to dissolve. sublingual is a good word. under the tongue. behind the language, below the words. a translation can ascribe myriad meanings depending on reference book you decide will be today's canon. is it a person? it should never be a person. you shouldn't give a person that much authority over you, and if you see the buddha in the road, kill it, because that guy has been dead for centuries and you must be dreaming. i will be too. i will close my eyes and slip through the door into that place that reaches out to the tethers that connect and stretch and running my fingers across that line i could find you, i could find anyone, i could find myself, if i wanted, but who wants to do that. shattered spleens and spikes of kool-aid in a cup and there's no need to travel to south america for such thing, they can happen in your own back yard, you can let it all wash over you and just give up, just believe that things are not ok but they will be after a sips drip drip down the back of your throat and you choke yourself awake from sleeping in crooked positions on lumpy pillows and keen-eyed wisps of dreamy spirits that don't kiss you awake in the morning, but jolt you from your passive resistance and if you're lucky, they scream wake up and you do, you do, you look around and say why did i think it wasn't going to believe in the heartbreak of plenary obstacles, hereinafter defined by REM sleep hangovers. you can't do that. you aren't allowed that. you do it anyway, don't you bastard, and that's why keep going because there are other things to do. there are five hundred sixty-four million, three hundred nineteen thousand, eight hundred and seven things to do in a day and none of them are on your to-do list because i threw it away and said, define it elsewhere. and don't use words. because they will kill you in the downstroke after saving you and that is the meaning of sword, of love, of reaction, of falling out of a moving vehicle at fifteen miles per hour and rolling away to the curb and you stand and go inside and close the door and never tell anyone again (even though we all know anyway). we always know, everybody knows and stop thinking it is a bad thing. it is not a good thing, it just is. like me, i am, the great am, the descartes and yahweh and everyone wants to philosophize about the conjugation of to be. i don't. i'll take it all, like a cubist painting, every side and angle flattened out and looked at for the taking. if i talked like this, i would never need to define waylaid, i would self-referential and give it all away in context like a standard test's reading passage and all my answers are right there on the page, just choose one.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm just schoked you're ALIVE much less AWAKE to write at all after that drug cocktail.

and i'm alive the next day too!!

whenever i am sick, i have the damnedest time being able to sleep, which is of course the main thing i need while sick. its about the equivalent of a dose of nyquil, that has both antihistamine and alcohol.

this is another sort of personal physical experimentation that i can get behind.

next time, a shot of whisky and a xanax!

i mean, uh, of course you should never do that.

i will close my eyes and slip through the door into that place that reaches out to the tethers that connect and stretch and running my fingers across that line i could find you, i could find anyone, i could find myself, if i wanted, but who wants to do that.

perfection.
that just wrapped around me