A thin string from me to the ceiling, I may be swinging slightly in a dark space.
I can't see the floor, slightly sickening. Quite some time ago, days perhaps weeks, I heard the last cry of joy. Joy faded away, a sound too faint to hear, gone now.
The ground may not be there. If I had a pair of scissors perhaps I'd enjoy the falling. We cling to the hope of things, and rationally, delving deep the pointlessness seems the only certainty and gradually the inescapable becomes inevitable. The insane apparently rational.
Vertigo, that's something to hold on to, let's rejoice. I want to cut the string if only if weren't for the planet below - just to keep on falling.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Thursday, October 24, 2013
84 Words - I'm not counting
Perhaps I should just write, I have no one to speak to, well, at least no-one that I want to speak with.
That feels hard like a judgement on others, but I just don't want to cause more pain.
I'm only spreading grief - grief for so many years of restraint, of not being fully me and now having my belly cut open and "me" spills out all over the street... all over the town... all through the night.
That feels hard like a judgement on others, but I just don't want to cause more pain.
I'm only spreading grief - grief for so many years of restraint, of not being fully me and now having my belly cut open and "me" spills out all over the street... all over the town... all through the night.
My Shit
As I sat, old, dumped, crying so hard on what was our bed, moving my shit into my dark room.
I'd only wanted space to breathe too, like you are not taking.
And I write this not wanting to let on about this screaming pain just because its proof to you of me valueless, once good, rejected - I can hardly see for the tears.
And still, still thinking I should save you the pain.
No, I'm in too much pain and its pain we both made and the only person I can turn to is the person that is pushing me away.
And the harder I try the worse I make it, always and inevitably, that's it really isn't it, old toys, junked things never come back.
Trash.
Tears by your bed in the dust.
I just wanted to do some yoga in the light but thats not mine.
Space has a value and it not mine.
Naked, old, crying why the fuck would you do anything but hear me push myself further away.
You can think that its a come down, me - you, arranging deck chairs on a sinking ship
I'm in just so much agony bottling it up because of endless space, stupid, love.
Just trying to protect you from that but I can't now. Broken.
Its just pouring out.
Love, I know that, its just so much pain.
I'm stripping my shit from your room.
If I could I'd burn down the house,
drown myself in the rain not just move my shit about crying.
I'm scrubbing the downstairs bathroom, moving my shit.
The pain I have needs saying, I'm fed up with holding it in, its not just protecting you, its protecting my family, my home, my joy, my love, my heart.
For once, you, stupid, cruel, selfish, just think it is not your space, your freedom, its a choice to have and to be a family.
To share, to join, to be human.
A new thing. whatever that thing might be will cover it up, paste over the cracks.
Perhaps I should never have spared you the pain, its here to share.
1 Jan 1999 "O" "Cerne Abbas & Giant"
30 Sept ***(no symbol for hearts, the *s are stars) JACK BORN 1.30pm (more hearts and stars).
Your diary, my life.
Hearts and stars you can't cut them in two, they have to be shared or they die.
I'd only wanted space to breathe too, like you are not taking.
And I write this not wanting to let on about this screaming pain just because its proof to you of me valueless, once good, rejected - I can hardly see for the tears.
And still, still thinking I should save you the pain.
No, I'm in too much pain and its pain we both made and the only person I can turn to is the person that is pushing me away.
And the harder I try the worse I make it, always and inevitably, that's it really isn't it, old toys, junked things never come back.
Trash.
Tears by your bed in the dust.
I just wanted to do some yoga in the light but thats not mine.
Space has a value and it not mine.
Naked, old, crying why the fuck would you do anything but hear me push myself further away.
You can think that its a come down, me - you, arranging deck chairs on a sinking ship
I'm in just so much agony bottling it up because of endless space, stupid, love.
Just trying to protect you from that but I can't now. Broken.
Its just pouring out.
Love, I know that, its just so much pain.
I'm stripping my shit from your room.
If I could I'd burn down the house,
drown myself in the rain not just move my shit about crying.
I'm scrubbing the downstairs bathroom, moving my shit.
The pain I have needs saying, I'm fed up with holding it in, its not just protecting you, its protecting my family, my home, my joy, my love, my heart.
For once, you, stupid, cruel, selfish, just think it is not your space, your freedom, its a choice to have and to be a family.
To share, to join, to be human.
A new thing. whatever that thing might be will cover it up, paste over the cracks.
Perhaps I should never have spared you the pain, its here to share.
1 Jan 1999 "O" "Cerne Abbas & Giant"
30 Sept ***(no symbol for hearts, the *s are stars) JACK BORN 1.30pm (more hearts and stars).
Your diary, my life.
Hearts and stars you can't cut them in two, they have to be shared or they die.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Pain
Pain, this is just and only about pain.
I woke up - a hundred times and today and felt, knew, deep within me, pain.
Pain you have done to me; I have done to myself I dutifully, responsibly, adultly quip in snappy properness... you did it to me though, really. This pain is mine and I want to share it with you.
Its all been about you, always. Take, don't give, take.
And mine was free to give, small things that I watched go. Time, freedom, sex, joy, fulfilment.
I thought I was sharing them but no. Things with love, spread sometimes to thinly but I shared all that I had.
You don't share, you take what you want, cutting my heart, my love, my memories, my family, my home, all that I ever had, cut down through with a knife - ours, cut in two becomes two dead halves of a bleeding heart, blue.
Your future, you see it as you kick off the things you see as shit; me, our home, our children, the time, the sharing (haha). If you could you'd bin me but perhaps you can do a deal and leave me out in the rain, without my pot of course, for some sad fuck to take away - take away a bit of that stuff that might, might, leave a mark.
That stuff, the pain I want you to feel - that love as it turns circle, scimitar, becoming pain and hate.
I woke up - a hundred times and today and felt, knew, deep within me, pain.
Pain you have done to me; I have done to myself I dutifully, responsibly, adultly quip in snappy properness... you did it to me though, really. This pain is mine and I want to share it with you.
Its all been about you, always. Take, don't give, take.
And mine was free to give, small things that I watched go. Time, freedom, sex, joy, fulfilment.
I thought I was sharing them but no. Things with love, spread sometimes to thinly but I shared all that I had.
You don't share, you take what you want, cutting my heart, my love, my memories, my family, my home, all that I ever had, cut down through with a knife - ours, cut in two becomes two dead halves of a bleeding heart, blue.
Your future, you see it as you kick off the things you see as shit; me, our home, our children, the time, the sharing (haha). If you could you'd bin me but perhaps you can do a deal and leave me out in the rain, without my pot of course, for some sad fuck to take away - take away a bit of that stuff that might, might, leave a mark.
That stuff, the pain I want you to feel - that love as it turns circle, scimitar, becoming pain and hate.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Dream notes
The pond is near dried out, once beautiful cartoon like creatures lay still, dying, one by one they speak their tail, eloquently, their words clear and strong. And then, i easy the sounds as the other people, disgusted, standing staring hear them, just as gasping, deathly noise. A man is holding a near dead, but plump and otherwise healthy gold fish in his hand. Showing the fish to another man, both dressed in tweed. I motion that they could put the fish back into the healthy water, but they want to watch it die.
I move on and the fields are dry grass and being cut, along their whole width, all at once, the cut grass falls as in a wave, knee deep towards me. A young man knees ahead of the wave, unaware, but the cutter, unseen, takes no notice, its not important. The young man is turned over smothered in cut grass
Im trying to get somewhere, i don't really want to go, back beyond the pond. To a wedding. The rocks are wet and slippery under my hard shoes. I am nervous while a man, Im not fond of him, chatters and distract me. I watch my footing and inch on, getting late and anxious. I realise, through my distraction we are now hundreds of feet above the river, near the top of a near smooth sided cliff that curves around us. The rock is smooth, wet and weeded. The terror of the height sickens me, Im standing, heels to the cliff as if walking down hill but its a cliff and I need to turn and climb down facing the rock but its too slippery to move, and I know that when a turn it will be too dark to see my footing down. I wake, its my choice, escape my own dream. Sickened, laying in bed a regret waking. I want to go back there and screw the dream, the fears that drag me and press me, i just want to jump, knowingly to die more than to suppress myself with fears.
I have started to do that in nightmares - often they culminate in my being in some position of being trapped high up with my fingers and toes loosing grip but still never quite releasing me so I stay in terror. I woke out of this one and wanted then to get back into it to just jump. But, when I do stay with it, in sleep, in the dream, and take the haha fuck it and jump option I just fall and die - there is not flying to another land or some release. Just like in Amsterdam, I just witness my own death in vivid 4D repeated endlessly in the finest possible detail and from my perspective and from all of those, simultaneously, that know me - those that I know who love and those I know who are indifferent.
Stories write themselves in dreams, they take the things and materials inside our heads and construct themselves, free will is only as effective as a light breeze, shifting the dream but not controlling it. When I control them more strongly they simply merge into reality and continue after I have woken - the dream elements, fear, paranoia, despair, loss, rejection, abandonment, failure - they just become real entities played out in symbols as some people, not me, project human personalities on animals, I project, and thereby reflect my terrors, into others and generate, in my perception, their hatred and disdain of me.
But, as we know, there is not fighting fear and terror or pain. It is only us, ourselves. Fighting it is just tearing at ourselves - we/I need to face it, know it; its not the weather, a storm, a high-cliff; its what our heads are up to, poor things. Fear needs bold, brave (as it is scared as well as scaring) limitless love... what else is there to do?
---"tail" - dyslexia allows me to tell a tale of turn-tails without spotting the terror of spelling - and only when I read my words, with the eyes of a "teacher" (those allotters of status), do I spot (my teacher's red-pen in my slapping-hand) that upon my tail there is a sign, pinned, that reads "upon this tail there ends the tale of a fool who would not spell no matter how much told he should".
I move on and the fields are dry grass and being cut, along their whole width, all at once, the cut grass falls as in a wave, knee deep towards me. A young man knees ahead of the wave, unaware, but the cutter, unseen, takes no notice, its not important. The young man is turned over smothered in cut grass
Im trying to get somewhere, i don't really want to go, back beyond the pond. To a wedding. The rocks are wet and slippery under my hard shoes. I am nervous while a man, Im not fond of him, chatters and distract me. I watch my footing and inch on, getting late and anxious. I realise, through my distraction we are now hundreds of feet above the river, near the top of a near smooth sided cliff that curves around us. The rock is smooth, wet and weeded. The terror of the height sickens me, Im standing, heels to the cliff as if walking down hill but its a cliff and I need to turn and climb down facing the rock but its too slippery to move, and I know that when a turn it will be too dark to see my footing down. I wake, its my choice, escape my own dream. Sickened, laying in bed a regret waking. I want to go back there and screw the dream, the fears that drag me and press me, i just want to jump, knowingly to die more than to suppress myself with fears.
I have started to do that in nightmares - often they culminate in my being in some position of being trapped high up with my fingers and toes loosing grip but still never quite releasing me so I stay in terror. I woke out of this one and wanted then to get back into it to just jump. But, when I do stay with it, in sleep, in the dream, and take the haha fuck it and jump option I just fall and die - there is not flying to another land or some release. Just like in Amsterdam, I just witness my own death in vivid 4D repeated endlessly in the finest possible detail and from my perspective and from all of those, simultaneously, that know me - those that I know who love and those I know who are indifferent.
Stories write themselves in dreams, they take the things and materials inside our heads and construct themselves, free will is only as effective as a light breeze, shifting the dream but not controlling it. When I control them more strongly they simply merge into reality and continue after I have woken - the dream elements, fear, paranoia, despair, loss, rejection, abandonment, failure - they just become real entities played out in symbols as some people, not me, project human personalities on animals, I project, and thereby reflect my terrors, into others and generate, in my perception, their hatred and disdain of me.
But, as we know, there is not fighting fear and terror or pain. It is only us, ourselves. Fighting it is just tearing at ourselves - we/I need to face it, know it; its not the weather, a storm, a high-cliff; its what our heads are up to, poor things. Fear needs bold, brave (as it is scared as well as scaring) limitless love... what else is there to do?
---"tail" - dyslexia allows me to tell a tale of turn-tails without spotting the terror of spelling - and only when I read my words, with the eyes of a "teacher" (those allotters of status), do I spot (my teacher's red-pen in my slapping-hand) that upon my tail there is a sign, pinned, that reads "upon this tail there ends the tale of a fool who would not spell no matter how much told he should".
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