Every me, Every you

Like the naked leads the blind.
I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind.
Sucker love I always find,
Someone to bruise and leave behind.

I revisited Sebald’s “The Emigrants” last night and felt unsettled once again. As though I really needed an external source of chaos!
Then this..

On why I fight I. Constantly and Unsuccessfully.

These are pieces scribbled on napkins, bank statements, old official envelopes and then stitched together to form one very inconsistent weave. This is what I deal with everyday. I refrain from labels as Freudian as self loathing, primarily coz I don’t loathe the self, but I don’t deny my sense of mental violence. It will be a rigorous task to undo love-pain-love equation.
Occasionally, I have to confess, I do despise myself with unparalleled venegeance. I also know that Life is a brilliant thing. Those are, two, very clear, distinct and individual ideas and yes, people can be that fucked up. So, this is no indication of any sort of harm that I could inflict upon self. I have done all the damage I could for one lifetime. Even the most “tenured” of shamans/healers who have had the misfortune of meeting and reading me, believe it. Save the advice, then.

This is Me talking to Myself.

Every little molecule is threatening to explode with into spirals of boundless energy that will probably take over my body soon. Its been almost an year’s worth of downslide into depression and people, including some whom I love tremendously, had to bear the brunt of it.
I don’t mean harm to You. I am just learning to walk again. So, hold on, don’t let go yet.

You have heard a lot and then reacted some more. All this while retaining the Outsider’s point of view bout events and people. Articulate you are, intelligent you never can be. You splurge time , money, material extending this pettiness of self-reverence to others who read you.You are not open to change but stand at traffic lights and yell bout oncoming insurgence, all the same.
You are averse to taking a position because you consider yourself too much of a hermit or not enough of a masochist.
You succumb to analogus wavelengths but never attempt to consolidate your point of view with right wing, moralistic, nationalist bastards. Your mind can sometimes harbor such incredibly messianic tendencies. You couldn’t save yourself. Not even once.
You persevere not because of any superior genetic mutation or for the fact that your helix accomplised the upward swing-task better than others.You are consumed ever too often by the promise of extracting veiled notes from sad voiceless throats. But you wont allow those notes to breathe the sibilant air of the city for the simple fear that if they are carried too far they might choose the path of no return. Paranoia, that people won’t return. You fear too much. You always walk towards the window when you enter a room. You don’t want to fly, often, you want to fall.
I suspect hubris and vendetta in your voice. Even the occasional mah-jong jocularity is not left unscathed by it. Your academic rigeur fails so fucking miserably when it comes to real things and real people. You travail hard at creation and then doubly hard to seek a suitable time to mock, with ample disgust, all that you’ve created.

You will put arms through car windows and then peel at the bandages with rusted scissors.The same techinque you will unfailingly apply to your phantasmic past. You will not forgive yourself ever for doing the undoable and thinking the unthinkable. You are the best damn thing to have a smart debate with but most of the times you can be so venomous that the most distant of people can feel a shade of excruciating depression engulfing them when you walk by. A trait that continues till this day.
But god fuckin lord, wont you go to earth’s ends explaining the duplicitous behavorial patterns, you claim you inherited?  Your multi-cultural, biracial identity is your bane. You hate it, thoroughly. You have no mooring. No place to call your own. You are capable of infinite evasion and eloquent whines. And mostly they compliment each other.Then you sulk with liquer and russet and Dharma Bums, for company. Solace isnt with Kerouac, cause you are unable to employ your pessimism effectively.
You just can’t manage to do what you really want, say what you really want, love when you really want. Can you?
So, I fear acquiescence.
For you.
And you will wrap it all up one fine day, and catapult it into some rusty vault of Time lined by stirrups of History. Strength – that disturbing but essential quality, is missing here. You are plagued by one too many arguments about lack of interest in life itself and  the fact is you are so consumed by life that the knowledge of your early departure from it, turns your knees into jelly.

So, where do you hide?

Ultra-cynicism’s veneer for the Inscrutable Escapist. Just one little problem little girl…
Your alibi is failing you. So, Now you are what everyone else is and you do what everyone else does. Your Renegade is Dead.You are cryptic without reasons. And if there are reasons then you don’t want the world to know. You will forever cling to that perfect excuse of a Disquiet Mind and bi polar existence. You will fight those endless hours of meticulously stretched nights, lying on wet bathroom floors. You don’t even know why you are there. You do know that no drug available can exorcize your demons that easily.

The Intellect. A blistering wound. Ugly transference when emotions don’t obey. And you cringe at your unfortuante association with nihilism. High end disparity between the actual thinking mind and the simulation. You are too much of a fence sitter and you dislike the very idea of re-gaining that horror of an alter ego( who read what she liked and said what she wished and often corrupted events like these with unparalleled sedition)you managed to destroy during the quarter life crisis that started before the quater life set in. Gratutious commercial poseur! You sold out.

One fine day you may realise that the trap you fell into is a giant blackhole and it will cure you of your itch for Revelation once and forever.
You love the beauty of life, of living, of everything that accompanies it. And yet the abyss only gets deeper everytime you stare into it.

One plaza, an ireful contralto coalescing with Rotten’s punk-ness, a tanned territory. You are such a wicked trip. Dormant and dynamic and docile and divine. Like hot fusion. Right? What you felt was but a  stunning resurgence of those indefinitely polygamous ways. You thought you loved him, you know you are lying. You were just toying with the idea of love. You liked the misery that accompanies it. Ad infintium. You don’t change; you phase in and phase out. Devoto spinning on the shelf and those singularities rearranged with an ambiguous and formally duplicitous boy. I tried. I left. Glamorous, hardly. Possessed, definitely.
What saves You, then?

You know those days when writing is a substitute for other primal yearnings. Well, this is not one of those days.

Fact: I am told that I would sleep the “blue sleep” as an infant. It used to be so incredibly deep that I’d often choke myself sleeping and I had to be watched else I could easily have killed myself then.
I have improved since.
Nope, nothing disturbs me anymore.

Sucker love, a box I choose.
No other box I choose to use.
Another love I would abuse,
No circumstances could excuse.

~ by iconoplastic on September 23, 2007.