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Jebus-Zeus
last online: 10/09, 19:48
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Ascendance

I inhabit a different body now. Each day, it seems, another self wakes up and heats the coffee. I can distinguish, even gauge, the passage from a disturbed youth to a disturbed adult by the subtle aggressiveness in my anxiety. Sometimes I catch myself sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring into the flickering glare of the television, like a deer on some highway transfixed by the headlights of a car. As these images pass, I can feel them feeding on my own inertia. Other times, I am overloaded with a smooth, graceful energy, filled with an almost incomprehensible joy. Sometimes I open my eyes out of a deep nod and see her staring down at me as if, by some vicarious means, by some force built out of an overwhelming will, she herself had penetrated the flux of my drug dreams and shared them in each vivid detail. It is as if I were riding a raft through rapids and, by a supernatural sense of timing and dexterity, she jumped onto it from a bridge as I passed beneath it, having followed it from above a long time before, as it first came into view around a great curve. And she lands feet first, upright, like a cat.

sometimes i ****fuck it up. I sit here with my liver and kidneys vibrating from uncertainty in every direction. Poetry can unleash a terrible fear. I suppose it is the fear of possibilities, too many possibilities, each with its own endless set of variations. It's like looking too closely and too long into a mirror; soon your features distort, then erupt. You look too closely into your poems, or listen too closely to them as they arrive in whispers, and the features inside you--call it heart, call it mind, call it soul--accelerate out of control. They distort and they erupt, and it is one strange pain. You realize, then, that you can't attempt breaking down too many barriers in too short a time, because there are as many horrors waiting to get in at you as there are parts of yourself pushing to break out, and with the same, or more, fevered determination.

So i take what the muse gives, and try not to force it. i knock down one barricade at a time, making sure no more is behind them than i can handle, making sure they don't double up on me. i take drugs, perhaps, to calm things down but all the while i know that whatever poetry gives out, i must pay back eventually, with an incredible interest added on. Take my word for it, the muse, in one form or another, will be around to collect. The price you pay for drugs is a small pink simian who enjoys interlocking his twenty digits around your spine in a slowly tightening grip. But at least you are dealing with a pain fierce enough for you to understand, to endure. The subtle art of poetry carries a more subtle pain.

It's all so on the surface that everything just slides along. It's like rain on a tin roof, or air raising up one of candy's silver pillows. The feelings are so shallow that there never is time for drifts to accumulate and slow things down. Even the boredom has no depth; it's just a stamped impression of the continuously subdued.

I'm sick of writing about dope, about drugs in every form. I'm sick of recording the ups of indulgence, and sick of releasing dispatches of misery via abstinence. I thought I could deal with, perhaps even come to understand, my obsessions through some strained eloquence. I thought I could eventually pierce every veil through chance metaphor, but how many flowers can serve as metaphors for that initial mingling of blood and water encased in the barrel of a syringe? All the Laotian roses . . .

I can't attempt to write always in the hollow flux of desperation and incipient terror. I try to cover this up, cower behind some facade of humor, hoping that old Aristotle was right--that humor will act as a catalyst to purify the tragic. But it can't go on. My body is broken.
.

Now I Am Ready to Ascend

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Since writing this post Jebus-Zeus may have helped people, but has not within the last four (4) days.
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time, sick, pain, drugs, subtle
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music=life
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So I read your other post and I want to send my condolences. Losing a friend is hard and I know the feeling where you just want to talk to them again. As for this post I want to try my best to help but this is so eloquently written that most of it it over my head. But what I can tell is you like writing and you are good at it. Right now I think you need to take time to grieve. It is okay to throw a pitty party and be sad, sometime we forget that. Focus on the present and get through these next few weeks one day at a time. From there I think you should write more it will help you work out your feelings. I hope some of this was a little helpful. Iโ€™m sending a big hug

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I agree with what @music=life said where it's hard to try and find something to say in a desire to help, because you've written this extremely raw - and perhaps that's a good thing. To get it out somehow. It whatever way in order to try and sort out the chaos in your head. It is something I can relate to as well. Words are my emotions that are given ammunition; for lack of a better way to explain it.

I do wish to say a few things though. I don't know if some sort of filtering or any sort of given perspective will be appreciated, but I needed to feel like I could maybe say something - anything that properly conveys my hope to try and help ease a little of your pain? I know sometimes it has helped me in the past.

The price you pay for drugs is a small pink simian who enjoys interlocking his twenty digits around your spine in a slowly tightening grip. But at least you are dealing with a pain fierce enough for you to understand, to endure. The subtle art of poetry carries a more subtle pain.

This screamed out at me. It says everything. On September 13th, I'll be 2 years clean after a near fatal overdose. The price I paid was that I felt like the monkey on my back was forced onto my mother - and that is a currency I refuse to pay ever again. My demons should be mine alone, and I refuse to force someone I love as much as my mother, to carry any of them.

For over half of my already lived life, I believed that I hated my mother just as much as I hate myself - sometimes, there were times when I thought I hated her even more that that; especially in the times I was actively hurting. There was a lot of unspoken pain, resentment, confusion that was left over from many years that we both found ourselves in a place where we thought nothing could fix the caverns in our relationship.

It has only been in the last five years where we have grown -together- and we have been able to begin to heal some wounds that were festering for far too long. The fear and helplessness in my mother's eyes the morning she rushed me to the hospital is one I will never forget; and while it may have been the epiphany I needed to finally see that I truly love my mother, I wish it had been another way. I should not have needed to hurt her so badly, before I realized that I actually gave a ****shit, and I was finally convinced that she did.

My mother is now, my best friend. Something I thought I would never say, or have.

That went in a whole other direction than I originally intended here, but it doesn't sound as simple or effortless as "I get it." I truly do.

My use was used to numb. To become emotionless, or at least not be aware or care of the emotions because they would rip holes of pain through me. I felt I had no other way to stop my soul from screaming. Even if it was just turning it's volume down for a short time, and letting the record play without hearing it. It didn't go away, or stop. It was just temporarily covered up.

I'm sick of writing about dope, about drugs in every form. I'm sick of recording the ups of indulgence, and sick of releasing dispatches of misery via abstinence.

I *get it

I'm exhausted, and there's times when I think it's even so beyond that, that there isn't even a word for it. I get so angry that it's even something that is a part of my life. In fact, it was only just the other day I had the second-worst day in two years. The only way it would have been in first place, would be if I had given in. Miraculously, I didn't. Or maybe the new Australian law is to be given the most credit. I think it is more likely to be the reason, rather than any kind of miracle.

I guess what I'm trying to really say here, is to possibly give words of comfort, and though I know it's so cliche, and I know that when we feel at our utter most low-point, we don't even believe the words, but; you are not alone.

Away from the self-deprecating humor, and underneath it all, no matter how much ****shit we might throw at each other in some form of weird performance dance, I care about you, and I just needed you to know that. I always have cared for you since I first met you. I've admired, and respected you. I am so so sorry that you are hurting, and like @music=life also said, do not forget that is is okay to throw a pity party. It's okay to be angry, or self-loathing or whatever you need to feel right now. And yes, we sometimes do need to feel some of that pain before we can begin to heal. It's just important to remember too, that as much as it can be believed that "I need to do this alone" sometimes. Sometimes, we really can't.

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This is entirely off the topic, but have you watched True Detective? There is a character on the show who reminds me of you. I think you would like the show. Tv can be a calming source of relaxation.

Yorick
Yorick
last online: 02/28, 23:53
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ascend then. use easier words. anyone can be a punk with a dictionary

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Jebus-Zeus
last online: 10/09, 19:48
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(5 days after post)
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NaCtHoMaN wrote:
ascend then. use easier words. anyone can be a punk with a dictionary

lol what *****nigga

Yorick
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too easy

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Jebus-Zeus
last online: 10/09, 19:48
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NaCtHoMaN wrote:
too easy

pop quiz in the am

A
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