Monday, November 16, 2015

the color of the sky is a hell of an eye-opener - plainly blue. there is nothing to doubt about it. uncomfortable, because i do doubt it, i bundle up- sweater over long sleeves and sweatpants, hood over head. if i were to stick my tongue out, and say, taste the sky, it might be a little chemical- a little too good to be true. my tongue might consider its arrangements an unhappy affair, being stuck in the same body.
well, i could say that i've forgotten how to throw love or passion outside of my mind. it remains there- no. it goes into paintings, looks like jungles feeling threatened of being cut. feeling threatened by never realizing an imago- it shies away. and the moss hasn't crawled on me yet, nor has the ivy- i'm not an old, unattended-to house. i'm an empty house, a doll's house, ready when the make-believe is. i'm something irretrievable.
there's a special exception given to that which shies away; a special pass that gets you anywhere. the wish to look above the canopy- for just a second, at least. the taking it easy. i've watched myself try to get there.
and i've been told that i have to go for a drive in the car when the car is there, or whatever, sometimes, when i am at my least adequate. the things i think are dark and upsetting. i don't need more ammunition.
i don't go out there when i'm inadequate to myself. i have to appear beautiful. there's nothing wrong. look at this cowboy wearing black. it cannot be fucked with.
this having to get myself out there business, learning how to do the things i didn't learn to do as a small-thing (the child who mothers me), in order to maintain a distance from intrusive ideas- it's all a threat. it's what other people would do so they recommend it to you. i do stuff sometimes, think about it later, and find myself short of breath; unable to recover without suffering near-drownings over and over. and this making friends business- i'm really not into it, as much as i wish i was. i have no idea how to make friends without keeping them very far away. any closer, and i eat them alive. it just seems like nobody is paying attention to what seems obvious to me. i'm not sure why, but this enrages me.
and what keeps me from becoming entirely possessed by bad ideas, from going home to satan? i know i haven't come through with my obligations. i haven't gathered a compilation of correspondences with other people. some paintings are unfinished. if i could do one thing for the loved ones, i could leave behind at least putting my all into the stuff that is my all. as far as writing- it's sad, nearly tragic. i don't believe i'll ever find my own voice. what voice i come across is that composed of the stuff i pick up while feeling certain ways, remembering certain things. i give up looking for certain things and just let myself speak however it happens to come across through me.
i don't mean these wounds. i suppose i was a soldier at some point and never grew out of it.