Truth

III: From Lull

Is it so fucking hard to simply be accepted by someone? Or is it just my destiny to walk through this wretched earth both hating and hated?

No, “hated” is far too strong. And “accepted” is also wrong.

Strike both of them. Shit.

Is it so hard to just mean something to someone – there, that sounds better already – rather than just… mediocre? I mean, it’s a rough estimation here, but I’m certain that’s what every human aspires to. People want to be loved, they want to be someone’s Number One, they want to be the first and last thought in someone’s head of a day. And then you have the people who will be happy with being hated… the ones who enjoy revelling in the anger and misery of others. You’ll probably still remember someone who did you very wrong twenty years down the line.

And that means – what? – that they mean something to you, correct? Yes – I might be someone’s brother, but that means shit. Of course Lois will remember me always, I’ll be so important to her. But she doesn’t count, why would she? She’s been around me long enough – and I around her – for both of us to piss each other off.

Although I don’t remember ever pissing her off. She pisses me off though.

But – where was I? Oh. I’d rather mean something, something real, to someone. Being a brother doesn’t count. And, and I know I say this with hypocrisy and a scoff, I’d rather be on someone’s Nice list than their Naughty list. Why wouldn’t I want someone to smile fondly at my memory, as blunt and unfriendly as it is.

Perhaps I’m just going soft, perhaps I’m… no, never mind. I don’t know what I mean.

It just… it’s sigh-worthy. I’m not someone’s anything. I’m anyone’s nothing.

Jesus Christ, I’m everyone’s nothing.

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The Lies We Tell Ourselves

I am a worthwhile human being.

No you’re not. You ignore your own problems and other people’s. What you think you do to help people is no more than a meaningless and empty statement. There is always something else on your mind than what you should be doing, or what you are doing. You cannot set yourself on anything. Any ideal is never good enough. More is always yearned for. You berate people and you don’t realise it. You’re not worthwhile.

• People want to help me if I’m in trouble.

No they don’t. The people you think care about you don’t care nearly as much as you think they do. Your problems are yours and yours alone. Sure, you can talk about it all you want. But, in the end, no one will come to your aid if you tell anyone you’re going to end yourself. They might offer a kind word or a plea, but that’s what people do. They want to feel good about themselves, they don’t want to help. People stroke their egos trying to help people, giving them false hope and advice where it is not wanted and won’t help. And anyone who’s genuine will have given up long ago by now, because they realise the same things. No one will really help you.

• I have friends who love me.

No you don’t. Friends vanish at a moment’s notice. A best friend can turn their back on you for someone else. And if you turn your back, you’ll get stabbed in it instantly. You can feel more for someone than they feel for you, and that’s always the case. You could run a mile for someone and they’d move an inch for you. But it goes both ways – someone would run a mile for you and you’d barely move for them. You have no friends.

• Tomorrow will be a better day.

No it won’t be. Tomorrow will be worse. The pain you’ve felt today will be doubled by tomorrow. You can fool yourself into thinking you’re having a nice time – you can go out to a restaurant, you can play an online game, you can write, draw, compose or produce, but it’s all in vain. Tomorrow is just as bad as today, if not worse. What you tell yourself is only a layer, a thin layer that you don’t want to think past. You don’t want to ruin your own day. But as painful as today is, tomorrow will bring something worse. It won’t be a better day.

• I’ve learned from my mistake.

No you haven’t. You will continue to make that mistake over and over again, subjecting yourself to the definition of insanity, when in reality you should have learned to avoid this mistake before you made it. You don’t think enough, you assume too much and you trust too much. Mistakes are constant, as long as life exists on this earth. And you never learn from them. You just keep doing what hurt you before. You never learn.

• I am attractive.

No you’re not. In the fleeting moments you might have where your ego expands, and you catch yourself in the mirror, you apparently fail to notice your chewed lip, your uneven eyebrows, your tired eyes, your fat neck, your terrible hair, your awful posture, your depreciating eyelashes and your exposed wounds. You believe your clothes fit and work, though, from behind, you look a complete wreck. Your shoes are scuffed and broken, and your makeup is lopsided. You think you will turn heads with your beauty, maybe meet a stranger who will change your life. But you won’t. It’s a stupid wish. You are not attractive.

• People listen to me.

No they don’t. You are invisible and ignored. You can write a speech full of promises in flowery language but no one will listen. You can take pictures you’ve spent hours preparing for. But no one will look at them. You are unappreciated, and you deserve no appreciation. No one listens to you.

• I am talented.

No you’re not. Any talent or skill you have is vastly inflated by your own deluded mind. You can design websites over months only to have it ignored. No one cares about your talent. No one wants to waste their life praising you for doing something anyone could do. Talent does not exist. Whether art-, music-, writing-, business-, politics-, food- or science-related, it doesn’t matter. People have seen everything before and they expect nothing from you. You are not talented.

• The things I do make a difference.

No, they do not. You can donate a vast amount of money to a charity but that won’t matter. Any needy man, child or animal will get less than 0.01% of what you donated put forward to help them. Your existence does not improve anyone’s life, nor does it matter. You will die and be forgotten, and no one will mourn you. The world will keep spinning without your input. You make no difference.

I am a good person.

No you’re not. You are selfish, dreadfully so. You are greed-oriented. You are an addict. Your help means nothing. Your help is meek at best. You smile at everyone though detest them inside. Nobody knows what you look like when you truly care. Any tears you cry for someone else are tears of selfishness, you want to prove to yourself you care about them, so you cry with them. This makes you feel good for feeling emotion. You are selfish and greed-driven, intent on making yourself content. You are not a good person.

How do you feel, you fucking liar?

XI: Scrawl

X: Scrawl

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU.

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT.

NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU.

OR

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU.

WHICH ONE IS TRUE? I MEAN SCREAMS, EVEN SILENT ONES, ARE OBVIOUS.

THE PAINED BLUE EYES FROM SLEEPLESS NIGHTS AND THE RED RIMS FROM THE SALT, THAT’S A SCREAM.

THE CRACKED KNUCKLES AND SCARS FROM A CONSTANT AND HABITUAL BODILY-RAPE HOBBY, THAT’S A SCREAM.

THE IMPORTANT SUDDENLY GETTING TOSSED ASIDE AND RELOCATED ELSEWHERE, TO ROT AND FEEL EMPTY WITHOUT ANYONE’S INPUT, THAT’S A SCREAM.

AND PEOPLE SEE THEM.

THEY JUST DON’T WANT TO HEAR THEM.

IV: The True Freedom – Care [Lull]

III: The True Freedom – Need [Lull]

Caring – about people, about things, about life – is an act of maturity.
– Tracy McMillan

 

Truly passionate individual,

Whose own spirit drifts on unaccomplished,

By even the smallest of pinprick silences,

And whose eyes – forever glowing

from the heat of their unrewarded generosity and certainty –

will one day rot, just as all ours will, within the ground.

 

Just as mine will glaze with each step,

Concrete – to dirt – to concrete – to wasps’ nest –

Again and again –

Seeing the helpless and hungerful traveller,

His travel halted by the unquenchable hunger of starvation,

And I do not extend my hand,

My eyes will rot, just as all ours will, within the ground.

Just as the eyes with passion will.

 

So! -I hear. What, pray you tell, is the point?

To be so blunt and disfigured within yourself,

And to hold onto nothing more on your deathbed than the fact that

you were a Good Person on arrival. So

what? Go on your way, sitting patiently in the waiting room that is

Purgatory, a place you so drastically believed in, which,

of course,

is irrational.

I will continue on, isolated during my own tar-stricken death,

knowing I’ve done nothing but Ruin, and yet our fates are the same.

Cold, unflattering earth upon our round faces, bruised by death and patience.

 

So! -I hear. What, pray you tell, is the point?

Here is the point.

Be rid. I have spoken, often, to take away and never to give.

But to give is to do nothing. My sister is half of me.

To attempt, to even admit to trying to salvage some

goodness within herself, it is false. So, I urge her,

The words never leaving my head, never casting a bitter taste

to my grey tongue, Be rid. I’d whisper.

Follow your half. Learn to bask in yourself and to reject humility.

For no matter who winds up hating you

No one will hate you as much as yourself. And no

one will accept you as much as the earth to your body when you

inevitably fall from your rightful place in the Aurora and into

the fresh casket I will prepare for you. I will not die until you do.

 

Yes. I care, I care too much. Enough to destroy whole corners.

But you! -sweetness that you are, do not. Should not.

Begin when you awake. Cast yourself around the world

always stepping in the sunlight,

and never take your eyes off the moon. Beggars

will be invisible to you, corporations no more than

mere cancerous lumps as you sweep on by,

avoiding them. Like all. Twist yourself enough,

and leave me far below as you screw yourself in

like a jigsaw. This missing shade of navy,

Above,

Casting the most beautiful shadows on the hideous landscape

as you lie your serene head down on the velvet

not even whispering a good-night to your protector.

Then I will know I have succeeded.

 

Awake. Sister.

Cast yourself around the world.

Always stepping in the sunlight.

And never taking your eyes off the moon.

 

V: The True Freedom -Material [Lull]

III: The True Freedom – Need [Lull]

II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]

 

They might not need me; but they might. I’ll let my head be just in sight;
a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.

-Emily Dickinson

 

Basic humanity –

Conservative, but,

Without the main heat of the warm and

Fulfilling gaze of the Needee,

the Needy pushes on.

Priceless. Always and forever,

Searching for that same strand, hopeless tempt-

-ation of spirit and fortune, candle

with frozen wick, waiting for the flame.

As are we. Just breathing hard enough to

keep our heads above the tide, the wall, even,

Just for a chance to be given unflattering attention.

Let us ignore this. I’ll make her sturdy.

Un-reliant. On anybody. Let us be rid,

Completely,

Of Need.

 

We exist, and exist together – me and her – and

never does the time pass. We – me and her-

Both young,

Both old, simultaneously, Remembering nothing

of the forgotten riches of agony of memory,

So much so I’ve forgotten what her shoulder-blades

Look like.

I do not need to know. I raise her chin

as she sleeps and cast her face, at peace,

Into my wet concrete mind. Preserved. Not

remembered. But preserved, certainly.

To leave her now would be insanity.

I will remove all needs from her,

She will become more by becoming less,

Such as ice fills the space water could

never reach. I remove the shoulder of

her nightdress. I can be slow. No heat,

No softness, coarseness, no Need for the

suffocating pinkness of the cotton skin.

I can be slow. In this.

 

Soon. I will create a new woman.

A new woman will be created. Soon.

She will be a duchess of the sky, cast naked,

Young as blossom but old as granite,

Suspended between the constellations of the

astrologers’ imaginations and the astronomers’ charts,

She will both create and aspire,

And walk her own way around the dark lilac sky,

A dancing camellia on the rippling aurora surface,

As the midnight waterfalls of thunder give her something

to dance to.

A marchioness, champion. Visible in the perpetual twinning

of Night and Day, above and below the sky, below and above the earth,

My creation. My sister, my ultimate, my polished stone. Who wants

for nothing. Who needs nothing. Who desires nothing. Whose

morals are straight as a helix, whose regards and

appreciation is aimed only inwards, no need for

approval, no more, not now she is and is not the sky.

No need for a name, no need for the gaze of strangers,

No need for the warmth of others. She is the ultimate,

The queen,

Head of my pride,

Below the skin,

Un-relenting, Un-reliant, Un-unreal,

Dearest naked cherub,

Splendid absolution of perfection,

Girl beneath my palm.

 

IV: The True Freedom – Care [Lull]

VII: Scrawl

VI: Scrawl

 

Found scrawling from inside my grey and dying mind.

 

LET US FALL THROUGH WONDERLAND. LET IT LIE SO FLAT AND STILL IT BECOMES LESS THAN A RIPPLE TO TEAR THROUGH US AND RUPTURE OUR SENSE. BECAUSE WONDERLAND IS NOTHING.

THE SIX-FOOT CATERPILLAR AND KNEE-HIGH HUMAN, A WONDEROUS DISCOVERY IF WE’D FOUND IT FIRST. BUT WE ARE SECOND, THIRD, FORTH, FIFTH, NINETY-EIGHTH. NOTHING NEW IS TO BE FOUND HERE.

WONDERLAND IS NOTHING NEW, SO CLOSE THOSE WIDE EYES. AND SUICIDE IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER AS YOUR BODY AGES AND CRAWLS CLOSER TO INEVITABLE DEATH AND PAIN. YOU COULD LIVE FOREVER WITHOUT A BODY TO HOLD YOU BACK.

OPEN YOUR EYES.
ARE YOU BLIND?
THERE IS NOTHING WONDEROUS ANYMORE. NOTHING NEW.
NEOLOGISMS HAVE BEEN WRITTEN, FICTION HAS BEEN TOLD, INVENTIONS EXIST ELSEWHERE.
SIT DOWN WHERE YOU STAND. AND WAIT.
OR SPEED UP THE PROCESS.
WALK TO THE LARGEST CITY ON THE LARGEST CONTINENT AND WALK UP THE LARGEST STAIRS OF THE LARGEST BUILDING AND LOOK DOWN FROM THE HIGHEST POINT AND JUMP FROM THE HIGHEST POINT AND
FALL
FALL

FALL

FALL

 

FALL

 

 

FALL

 

 

AND LAND, AWARE THAT YOU ARE NOT BLIND, THAT YOUR EYES ARE OPEN. YOU KNOW THE TRUTH OF LIFE AND DEATH ITSELF, THAT NOTHING IS NEW AND THAT THERE IS NO POINT. COLLAPSE INWARDS LIKE YOUR LUNGS, PUNCTURE YOUR TONGUE WITH YOUR TEETH AND GRIN THROUGH THE PAIN BECAUSE YOU KNOW.
ONLY NOW YOU DIE, ONLY NOW YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES WIDE.

 

VIII: Scrawl

Thoughts during a Haircut

Sink down,
So far that you’re lost in the endless realm of
vague and obscure thoughts
manifesting themselves into harmless but
terrifying shapes that each inevitably slink
closer and closer to us.

Sink down,
So far that you’re lost from sight
and your truths are hidden behind your lies that you
believe. This is not your psychopathic mind, this is
your psychopathic journey and you expect me,
Me,
To sympathise with you?

Oh, keep it company with you sir,
For sympathy is restless and uncomfortable here,
It writhes in its own sweat and I must send it
away. For no one here sympathises. Your lies
are yours alone and yours eternally. Quiet –
hiss of fire and gold. Does it in your head –
held high like the sun – hold the delicate truth
that you are, indeed, a lie?

How about lying that you hear something,
A ghostly remembrance,
Of skirt and swish, and turning forever.
Is it all related somehow? And twist
the truth together. An ugly mush of words that fall,
Unhappily,
Together.

Sink down,
Lower – sink down. Small understatement.
But still. Lower, sink, lower, sink. You think
you rise higher, how dare you swear that where
you wander and slink in the shadows is inside your
own reality. This is your mind – your mind.
Your mind.
Like the beehive we remember
full of ugly thoughts
and ugly faces
that you
make
work.

Can you sit a little lower,
I think your head – full – takes up the oxygen.
And leaves none for us. Let me see you.
Let me hear you.
Let me
Let me see you. Oh
let hear you. And see right past your
bloated ears and into the mirror.
Sink down.

Taking the scissors nearer,
Obscure thoughts manifesting again,
Outside your head again,
In the world again. And where should I cut?
Perhaps if I slit the vein
that holds the flowing hatred and electric,
Maybe your kindness will be revealed?
Or
maybe that died long ago.

Whichever.
Sink down,
We’ll continue your trip
and your psychopathic horror story
so much later that when you sleep
we’ll be beneath you, right there, underneath,
Hissing through. Fabric will keep us down
but never gone. As long as you close those eyes
while I work
and as long as you resign yourself
to the snip of the scissors
the grating churrr of the blades together
we won’t ever
have another
issue
sir.

Have I made my threats
crystal
watery
clear?

So
sink down.
I can taste those abominations you call truths,
And I feed off those truths,
And I decimate your truths. Because
I know how they really sound
and how they really are
behind the vague obscure nature of tongue
and cheekbone and toothpull
I know what really lies
behind those lies.

 

 

 

[Just for the record, I’ve not had my hair cut for approximately 5 years]

Mister Miser

Good morning Mister Miser. Are you here to take both the Good and the Morning from me? Strip me of my dignity and order me to walk bare-foot and blood-covered with a bag over my head, breathing in my own previously-inhaled air. And my hands behind my back, tie there with the same cruelty as you had when you stuffed my head into the bag. That way the Good becomes Bad and the Morning means nothing anymore as the heavy material in front of my eyes makes me blind. I hear the laughter, sure, but I don’t see anybody so I can ignore it. You might think you’re taking my dignity from me, Mister Miser, but you’re not. Inside the dark sack I smile and my white teeth are whiter than yours. I don’t know why you hide my face – perhaps so all you white boys don’t have to see my white teeth shine brighter than yours. But I’ll tell you something. Your souls are black, far blacker than my skin could ever be.