Its becoming more and more apparent that life is broken. I look around at my place, and everywhere there is debris, garbage, broken things from the other day. My wall is broken, hole in it where I nearly put the monitor through it the other day. The keyboard is broken, I smashed that in when the internet wasn’t working. Beer cans all over the floor, some still with beer in them. They are there because I dropped them there, carelessly, maybe purposefully. Like when i through the T.v remote at the bottle of water, knocking it down and ricocheting the remote into the wall, where upon which point, it became pieces.
I knocked my ashtray over, never picked it up. Not like it matters, no one ever takes their shoes off when they come over – hell just crawl in the window, make yourself comfortable.
Now I want to make sure that the picture I am painting, is not one for any reader to look at, because frankly, I am painting for no one but myself. I am throwing it up on the wall for me to look at at, examine and gauge. Where as more often than not, the majority reading this, and a specific few, could go to far, as to judge me for this and make some inference about my state of mind. Perhaps suggesting that it is unstable and from there cause more pieces of my life to come undone.
In my defense, this is my therapy, this is what I do to feel better, I write it down. I self examine, this is my self medication, my escape from it, my way of seeing whats going on. For anyone person to read this, such as my son’s mother, all anyone would ever need to understand is that this is contained within me. Meaning when its necessary, when I want to or have to, responsibility will take over and I can manage to live in a socially acceptable manner.
In the meantime it’s all an experiment of what really matters and what does not. For what reasons do we do the things we do? Why do those reasons matter? Should they matter? What if they didn’t matter?
Does it matter in the rage that over took me yesterday – that I totally destroyed my bible? Tore chunk from chunk, page from page. I had a lot of memories with that bible, allot of good ones. Allot of people signed it, said nice things in it, I had my sons first picture in there, along with an inscription on the day he was born. Torn up now. Gone.
Perhaps it’s the artful display of carefully chosen, coherent words, displaying my logic – compared with the short sighted blinding rage that is my opposite personality – the comparison of these two halves of me – something that has to be examined.
I suppose I am trying to find reason and purpose in everything, and for that matter, a reason or a purpose for this very write, for if I did not have one, then what would I accomplish? Except selling myself out as a raving madman, who is angry and intoxicated all the time. That’s not at all the image I wish to associate myself with, nor am I trying to convince people of that. That would be very damaging to me, to my life. I do not wish to be any more damaging than life, circumstance, and I – have already been to myself/my life.
Perhaps there is something still – there -in, that it’s attention based. Perhaps it’s the therapeutic release that drives me to do it, or simply the fact that’s what writers do – they observe & express – they write, as if in their nature to do so, and not just in examination of the world, but especially in examination of the self.
That being said, would it be fair to judge or punish me for expressing myself?
To the point of this write now, I just ceased to care yesterday.
I want to care, I want to try. I need a second chance, I am simply waiting for it. I just need some direction, waiting to catch a break. Maybe then things will click into place again. Or… we simply shall totally destroy everything and re-create from the ashes… what ever I wish.