Drinking blood…embracing the ephemeral

After a two-day vacation from my brain in a custody-fueled fugue, I’m falling back to earth with a profound melancholic thud.

“I take two a day/To make my brain behave/It never does/But who’s to say/At least my doctor gets paid…”

Medicine, Schmedicine…

“I’ve been sleeping so strange at night/Side effects they don’t advertise/With a head full of pesticide…”

Like spending hours and hours online, downloading music and downloading demos and buying every software title I do or don’t need along with some ubiquitous shareware utility and, of course, companion books to go along with the it all…lots of digital cash gets spent at the neo-Bukowskian racetrack, somewhere in the ether or undergound, wherever it goes…

The cigarette saturated air I’m surrounded in is slowly giving my black lung, I can feel it. I can find all sorts of things wrong with me. Weak. Selfish. Self-deprecating. Whiny. Needy. Everywhere I look is loss, lingering, like the stale odor in the garbage can after you’ve just taken the trash out.

I know there’s a buncha razor blades around somewhere, and I have burning red flesh ready for carving. To bloodlet “selfish” and “weak” on my bacteria-ridden body, reminders of why someone would want to avoid me. And as a way to exorcise the demons that dance in my head unimpeded…would I feel any better? I doubt it. Oh well. Why do yourself in today when there’s always tomorrow?

“Tripped into a hole I dug, every word…”

When the hole gets too big, there will be no practical means of rescue. I’ll just rest my eyes ’til you float down.

Fortunately I’m too aware of Camus’ paradox about suicide. Very simplified: if you’re going to die anyway, why rush it? This is what we’ve got, don’t go and give it up for a big fat fucking NOTHING.

I don’t know when
but a day’s gonna come
when there won’t be a moon
and there won’t be a sun…
It’ll all go black
it’ll all go back
to the way
it was before

I’m somehow barely managing to hold it together, my madness the core to one of America’s most dysfunctional households. Plus I’m too afraid to leave the house. I’d have a panic attack on some back road and end up pulling over to cry for an hour or two while Okkervil River plays saturninely in the background. So I don’t go anywhere. Which is probably a big mistake, considering my girlfriend has all but dumped me.

Another potential loss, one of the biggest ones yet.

I know this psychic energy honed towards self-destruction and self-deprecation and self-hatred and egotistic pursuits must dissipate…soon. Please.

Boxes full of failure lay scattered around me, forever incomplete. Whatever I was trying to work on becomes taboo, poisoned, untouchable. I cannot go back to it.

I’m forcing myself to eat, mostly unsuccessfully. Mostly cereal.