I need not, but i do apologise

I wish I knew what to tell you. Sadly, in this moment the stories conflict and collide in my mind with a powerful malice that leaves me breathless and weak. I know my legs can hold the weight of my body, but I am certain that far more is being pulled down. Among the many things tied to my spine are my memories. Through them I could swim, but I would not leave their embrace unscathed. I still taste the blood that the wounds of my own nature have left in my mouth. Dripping I crawl against the parapet and shield my eyes from the bombarding rays of retrospection. With white knuckles I gnash my teeth in what looks from a distance like a smile, and sing an apologetic scream. When that cesspool gets spiced by the hopes and presuppositions of those that have carried the burden of loving me, then things start to become most unsettling. I do not for a moment doubt that those factors strengthen my deep relationship with violent poisons. If I am to lean against a sword, pointing towards my heart, I should at the very least sharpen it. Then, when I add the rumbling melodies of lost lover’s whispered assurances, a ball of razor blades feels the need to go exploring my chest. Weakly I struggle to submit to the unyielding voice that proclaims my deficiency. It cannot be correct about every incomplete aspect of my shell. If I had learnt to believe in the consistency of joy then I may not be standing at the gates with sharpened arms. But that is not who I am. In truth I simply hope I do not destroy you, for I have become rather good at it, in the way that can only be felt in retrospect.

My Beloathed Goddess

I suppose if you were sitting by the fire, stoking the coals intently with a branding iron, and were it to find my hide, it would not shy from the mark of a romantic. If anything, the means would match the manner. For you see, that accursed thing I have deified and dedicated my life to has sharpened each of its edges and found it fitting to leave them both wedged in my chest, only to twist it at its leisure. Love, of all the underpinning emotions my nature had to submit to, why did it have to be such a bitter and venomous drive. It clouds logic and crawls from one unattainable to the next. Yet still I am to prostrate myself piously before whatever and whomever it may land upon, whiles my free hand, when given the slightest opportunity, flings uncensored personal vile in the hopes that purity and honest validation may clean it and allow it safe passage home. A lifetime of tying myself to others, albeit they blind be to it, has left my heart a gapping maw, puckering its lips and sucking at the cold air in the hopes of latching onto something to sustain it. It does not pacify easily nor for long. So when this adolescent organ does eventually find nourishment, it covets it with every inch of itself, and grows strong and large when well fed. Though no feast can last forever, so when its sustenance ceases, it is now a creature designed by the acquired love of another. Were any to refill the void, its passion would pump through the veins another made. So to the cleaver I go, and clean it. Now only the scars remain. Though I am open and able to worship yet again, my dear lord, for I have paid my pound of flesh, my penance. I have sacrificed myself at the cold alter yet again. Yet I remain devout, as zealous as I am callous. My heart lies yearning and partially numb, as the coals cough and crack. But give it tinder, oh then it shall take up its station yet again, and rage with blind fury, only to lead to me to another melancholy.

Tick.....

Day by day the hours slide from waking to what we call real. Days crawl too quickly towards deadlines. Each moment starts to carry with it greater value, an implication and measure for not only who you are but what you are to become. Meals become missions, a quest to keep you alive. Soon the mirror becomes an enemy, so much undone is written on the face. Dreams, desires and the sense of self bend beneath the passing tides. I would tell you more of this story but my watch is screaming at me with every passing second. Maybe we may speak again

What do I call you?

I am running low on pretty words. They tell as much as they hide. We give them to the reader hoping they will find a semblance of relatable truth in them, when in fact it is our heart that lies bare before them. Scribe what we will; the illness of humanity maintains the unknowable nature of the self, even within our own gaze. So sharpen your claws, your wit and bards. Adjust your line of sight until the crosshair fades into the target. I have cloaked many an emotion in ciphers so cynical and detached that upon reflection I find no true feeling in them. Every aching moment of my hearts spasmodic journey has been heralded in prose. Shame, loss and many shades of hate were chronicled, categorised and kept. Alas, now a stranger to these lands is standing, gloriously shivering, by my gates. I know it to be a part of me, for its very presence tells me so. Though never before have I, the collector of chaos and grotesque carnage, been so afraid to describe such a thing as this. In a whimper I call out to, requesting its name. Grandiosely it declares, “I am Joy”

Contractors

So what a taste i have acquired for the passing of time unknown. Alas the strength i have used up to this moment will not be enough to grant me the future i desire. I suppose the moment has come to sacrifice my selfish altruism for a life more dedicated to personal strength. My resolve willing, i will be able to manifest an identity that does not sustain itself for any other reason than personal grow. I hope to surprise myself, or more correctly i hope to let myself be surprised. But alas I know this to be folly. Where I to embark on any expedition of self that were anything less honest and open, I would simply be repainting a breaking wall, in the hopes that no one sees the ever growing cracks. No, it is time to repair the foundations.

Once we were Faries

I hope that this is true. That this face so known, with heart so torn and a memory so worn, would still wish the moment was worth the words that held them in place far too many moons ago. The weight of such things often leads us away from desire and into the grips of defeat and lack of meaning. I do not know if I should be thankfully for my romance, as it prevents me from fully surrendering to my logic and sense. The subtle spark that lies behind the early dew still calls to me with wonder. The shades and shadow’s still seem alive beneath the winds fine caress. Even if I know it not to be so I dare not refuse the dreaming of it. I still wish for my life to remain in so partial way, beautiful.

The Good The Bad and Us

I think that Adler, Nietzsche and Foucault where right when they posited that all human behaviour is governed by the will to power. This may appear to be a purely Machiavellian outlook on humanity but would disagree. In fact there is great space for exploring ethics, construction of identity and social behaviour in such a framework. As a child I noticed that the Bad Guy was, as an individual, more powerful than the lead protagonist. However, through the support of friends (something the antagonist did not have) the ‘good guys always won’. Hence power itself is not per say a bad thing, though through its application one can evaluate the ethical direction of a person. This results in two opposing poles in the continuum morally accountable application of power. The one is ‘power for oneself’; the other is ‘power for others’. In the former, one aspires to acquire power so that one’s station and capacity are improved to the benefit of oneself. The latter, however, is when power is ostensibly shared, in that when one has more power, one is then more capable or aiding others in their acquisition of power. Naturally the former excels far faster than the latter, where as the latter has close connections that provide aid for them in the same way they would for others. We call it Ubuntu. As a modern and rapidly expanding civilisation there is a general tendency towards the former, but very often at the expense of the social body. As a result I have constructed a means by which to measure my life, and that is by a simple question, “are the people I have known better or worse because of me”. I am rather fond of it for it appeases both a categorical imperative and a utilitarian interpretation of morality. Ostensibly it is something both Kant and Mills would agree upon, a rarity indeed.