Tuesday, March 22, 2016

When the quarters are the mids, and the mids crave the end.

You know that sound a teapot makes when it's pushing steam out at full force?

That is the noise that I am making inside, viewing myself as someone that is sitting on the couch, pulling hair from the head, that awful screeching at maximum blast.  It's like being a teenager, the angst and anger spewing this way and that, so pent up, so alarming, so...ARGH!

I hate this life.  I hate it.  I hate it.  Woe is me, woe is me.  My life is at a standstill, I am going nowhere, this is nothing, he is ...  They are...  The screeching continues, piercing my own ear canals.  I imagine the blood trickling out of them, staining my shirt and the couch.  NOWHERE.  STUCK.

Woe, woe, woe, dear child.  Where is the comfort, where is the feeling that things will be okay, the assurance of a mother's touch, her hug, her guiding words...

Woe, woe, poor child, poor baby.  Screech, screech.  The downward spiral is about to take hold, about to pull me under, when I realize:

I am an adult.

Damn it.  Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

And where do we go from there?  The child adult sits on the couch, eyes absorbing the tears that were going to spill, unclenching the fists of rage, seemingly relaxing.  Ah, relaxing...adults don't do that.  The tension has turned to something else: it has turned to some sort of sadness, embarrassment, ignominy.

Body slumped, deadness taking over.  I am an adult.

And, with that, there goes my hope.  My world.  My sense of being.

This...is ...?

Friday, March 11, 2016

I don't believe in God.

He's not always present.

A lot of the time, he is.

It's lovely, yet, it can be painful.

He'll tell you the truth, whatever that may be.  Whatever he needs.  And you'll respect it.  It will pain you both.

You'll want to tear your heart out.  He'll make you cry, even if it isn't really his fault, because it is yours.

Forward, you'll say to yourself.  You wanted his presence.  But you knew it wasn't right.  And nothing you did seemed right.

He could be a martyr.  You are the sinner.  Baptism has nothing on this shit.

Nothing is really "wrong", is it?  But you'll tear yourself apart anyway, believing what you were taught, what he feels, is everything that makes you that sinner.  May you burn in Hell.  This is your forever Limbo, and you're scratching and pawing at everything.  Tread on your skin, bring upon the raw flesh to feel some substance of what is this life, but only for a brief moment.  Because the pain doesn't last, and the stinging doesn't last, either.

Go numb.

Jesus, Christ

Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?

Repetition as a human.  You'd think we'd learn.  We do, yet we repeat our situations in our lives over and over again.  Broken records.

And we try to stop, but...  Alas, it will happen.

And this is fine, for the happy, content person.  Praise to them.  But to those masochists...  Well, is it praise to them, too, because they are achieving their masochism?  Burn yourselves.  Again.

And, so, there she is, again.  Silent, silent, silence.  Happy to the outside, blindsided a little, but feeling demeaned and confused as to why she feels bad about herself, sometimes.  Are the words spoken to her manipulative?  How can one know if not meaning to manipulate?  Ah, but the manipulation isn't always meant to be cruel.  But, most times, it comes out as such, and they will suffer.  She will suffer.

Stand strong, miss.  You've got a heart in there, and you can beat this.  Don't let them tread you down.  You've got this.  Strength, miss.  Strength and love.