mast

Tension. I don't mind that the strings get tighter and tighter with time. It's only that which allows them to vibrate louder and louder and drown out anything but the chaos. Discord. This is what it's like to live a life disjointed in full bloom. Potential wide-eyed, praxis scattered. I've traveled over a thousand miles in the last week. Why? To feel, the pursuit of feeling. To be struck down again while seeking the thought and feeling that someone gives a fuck about me. Here, there, under rocks and on beds and beaches and fountains and concrete and across oceans and states and miles and hundreds of dollars I look to feel slightly less alone. To feel cared for. To feel like I have some semblance of family. To hold on to the human half, the right to be weak, the right to be treated like a person rather then a novelty.



I feel like I'm standing very very high and the wind is blasting my hair back and making my eyes water and blowing everything from my hands and pockets and leaving me grasping. I am falling. I am. I am winding down. This is a last push, the way things stand. This is a press of dwindling strength, pitifully unfocused for a final strike. I have no great loves to fight for, only bitter hurts turned to bitter hatreds and sad scars to avenge. No great stories anymore. Resentment. I begin to treat my friends like enemies for marring the trust and faith and emotion I give to them.



You give up the right to be close with someone when you go away a lot. I go away a lot. And when I end up screaming and begging and clawing to speak and be heard and feel human again I find I am a piece. A novelty. Everyone has cashed in their faith in me. There is no one to choose me. There is no one to believe in me. I am central to no one's lives, I am close to no one's heart, I am small. A small piece that comes to bear as an amusement, a crutch, an angel sent by god to protect you in your times of need, requiring no thanks or reciprocation because that's my fucking job. I am self-sacrificing charity.



It's bent. I can't stand anyone because I know how this ends. I know and anticipate that feeling of wounded trust or of being shoved aside or passed over or forgotten. I don't want to care, I don't want reminders that embarrass me of caring for anyone ever because whatever I did and whatever I was and am is never enough.



I am becoming self destructive. I don't even feel the need to document the absolute insanity I brush against on a daily basis anymore and don't care if it's the last time I get away with it. It's not for attention because no one cares. It's for me. It amuses me. It's the only thing that amuses me, watching it finish bending and break. Someone offered to sell me a grenade, several for the right price.