Side Salad

Tonight's menu is light in selection and density... no severed veins to suckle upon or pending feasts. No riddles or flashbacks tonight. I thought it would be interesting to hear from you, the audience... whether in a comment or message, anonymous or not. I would like to hold a little Q&A session... you the audience can ask me questions and on occasions, I will answer them as a topic of discussion. The content is unimportant... let the blood and feces fly. Be vulgar, be offensive, be inquisitive, be concerned... whatever your minds desire. There is no taboo... shame and pride can be checked at the door at any time. Maybe you want to know more about me, or my illness, and have questions. Maybe you want to know what tripping for days on LSD is like. Maybe you want to know how being raped in a dentist office feels and affects the human mind. Maybe you want advice. If you wish to remain anonymous, I can respect that... I have no need to disclose people's names. I thought it might be a nice addition to the current ramblings... perhaps even insightful for everyone involved. Give it some thought... the offer is on the table.

Creative Juices

The inspirations have waned... leaving me limp in vigor and sensation. The voracity grows to rend open my fleshed vessel... your consumption and my dysfunction, reigniting the embers within. I have fattened myself on the paper shredded hearts... the cartooned images melt under the folds of my tongue. Exit light... enter life. I shiver as I feel you coming closer... your fingers tingling up my spine as my saliva thickens. With blackened eyes, I enter your world once more... Ouija communications no longer needed, once you slide inside me. My mind, your favorite fuck, shifts with each impulse... milky satisfaction, the days linger without end. Shimmering symbols and puzzle pieces take shape once more... the questions answered, in this world it's absolute. In the final thrust, there is no more nothingness... every void is filled at climax. You'll pull out slowly, as my eyes flicker and mild convulsions seed the sorrow... I am but a visitor and the gates are starting to close. Naked and exposed, my insides are out and my outside are in... I feel no remorse for the feasting, only anticipation for the next embrace. All will fade away within hours, as I travel down the astral highway... the puzzles undone, the mysteries re-web themselves in silhouettes of time. Trading pieces of myself, two days at a time, in exchange for your strychnine kisses... bathing anew in creative juices.

Unknown Diagnosis

I have been trying to get some answers and understanding regarding my mental illness for quite a long time... whether from researching the topic online or in books or speaking with my therapist and doctor, the results have been fruitless. The common answer I get is, "Hmm, I'm not quite sure.". So perhaps there is someone that will read this and may have an idea... it's worth a try. The only thing I have found to be certain is this... there is too much misinformation out there and not enough fact!

As you all may already know, I suffer from Paranoid Schizophrenia This includes all the other wonderful sub-symptoms like severe depression, anxiety, dissociation and social withdrawal... to name a few. However, I have another symptom that no one can give me a name for, thus no further understanding... no, it is not a delusion either. It has been confirmed by my doctors as a real symptom, but that's about it... I need more than that. I need to understand it, so I can learn how to cope with this illness to the best of my abilities. The best way to describe it is as multiple personalities, but NOT in the traditional sense... more like partial personalities. People with DID / MPD have entirely separate personalities. Based on my limited amount of knowledge of this subject, the core personality is absent while the other personalities are active. The core personality loses time and has no memory of what has been taking place during that time frame. The alters have different personalities, memories, talents, fears, speech, mannerisms and even sexual orientation. They are separate people living in one shell. These alters are generally created because of some trauma... the core person couldn't deal with the events, so the mind splintered into a new person that could deal with the situation. It was a means of controlling, surviving and dealing with those events of severe abuse. Remember, this is just my understanding and I am not claiming to know the specific details and facts here... please forgive me if I am incorrect.

The way my therapist has described it to me is this... it is as if, I "almost" splintered into other personalities, because of the severe sexual, physical and mental abuse I suffered as a child. These "almost personalities" are an active part of my life... when situations arise that I am not capable of dealing with, they "deal" with it. However, I do NOT lose time, in the traditional sense, usually,  and I am completely aware of my surroundings and what is happening... but on occasion, I have lost small pieces of time where I have no idea where I have been or what I have been doing. In most cases, I have been doing things I didn't want to do but was powerless to stop them from happening... like a puppet being manipulated by it's master. At other times, they have done things that I desperately needed done, but just couldn't. Here is a good example. When I go out into public, I don't make eye contact with anyone... I always stare at the ground and avoid as many people as possible. I don't shake hands with people or look them in the eyes if I have to talk to them and I am nervous to the point of a heart-attack. A few weeks ago, the car broke down and I needed to decide if investing more money in the car was a good or bad idea. After everything was said and done, it was determined a replacement vehicle was the best option. This meant going to the bank and speaking to someone about a loan... an impossible task. I became very upset and didn't know what to do, other than it had to be done. I stepped aside and someone else stepped up to take control. I went into the bank, completely calm and started asking questions. A man walked up to me and extended his hand and I shook it, then he invited me into his office. The entire time, I made eye contact and acted and spoke with professionalism... never once staring off at the ground or rocking back and forth uncomfortably. The entire process lasted about 15 minutes... which ended with no financial help of course because I am disabled. The point is this... that behavior wasn't normal. For that entire time, I was in essence, letting one of those "partial personalities" deal with this situation. I was fully aware, but my part in this adventure was merely a spectator... I remember being fully at peace and comfortable. When the immediate crisis was over and I was safely home, I returned to "center stage"... and the usual behavior returned like clock work. For that time, I was someone else... set free from the nightmare of my mind and illness. This is but one example, there are other times when crisis has arisen and someone else had to "take care of things".

I am frustrated that my doctors can't explain what this is all about... so, I turn to the audience. Other then them telling me things like, "partial personalities" and "almost splintered", my questions haven't been answered. If they could give me a name or diagnosis, then perhaps I would have better luck in researching it more and thus understanding it better. At any rate, if anyone has any thoughts... please share them. Even if your thought is, "Shut the fuck up!" and "You're so full of shit!" ... anything is better than, "Hmm, I'm not quite sure".

The Stain Remains

Have you ever committed some heinous act... something so putrid and vile that the mere thought of it makes you retch? In those moments, where do you find yourself... looking for forgiveness or so mortally and spiritually wounded that you feel unworthy of such? I suppose it would it be easier to find yourself untroubled, humored even, and the acts somehow are erased from your being. For most, that isn't the case... it's either forgiveness or grievance. Most, I suppose, seek some kind of repentance, which leads to forgiveness... forgiveness from the other party, from yourself and perhaps your higher power. It's normal and accepted... the appropriate measure, one would think. But what of the others... the ones begging not to be forgiven? Is it because of the act... something so reprehensible, that it doesn't merit such a blessing as forgiveness? Or is it because they are so sickened with themselves that they feel unworthy of that absolution? Perhaps it's both. People say that we are all worthy of second chances and amnesty... especially when they are the ones seeking such a service. Personally, I think most are deserving... if there is sincerity and obvious remorse. As for myself however, I feel a stricter sense of obligation. I am one of those that begs to not be forgiven... it festers inside of me, making a point of reference. I don't want to forget the pain and suffering I have caused... things forgotten tend to resurface. I need the reminder, no matter the cost, to keep me from making the same mistakes... however this system is flawed, proven over and over again. It begins to rot deep inside, the stench overcomes you and your every thought... soon, the reminder isn't enough. Torment becomes necessary. Perhaps it is because I truly hate myself or maybe these events are what led to this affirmation. Still, I find myself wondering... what does this mean? My hate reflects onto others and they become walking mirrors... blinding me further with the illusion that they, in turn, hate me as well. Perhaps they should. What does this say about myself? Am I a monster because I believe it to be so... or because, in fact, I am?

Moon Etched Bookends

After everything, all the torment and heartache, why would I allow further destruction... am I addicted to the chaos or merely longing for a bookend? Something to fuel the fires of passion, love, hate, isolation, cruelty and animalism... or something to lean on holding the volumes of this life from crumbling asunder. The last encounter inspired much thought and growth but charred my innocence and sensibility... the wounds are fresh and the void is limitless. These walls, my womb of plaster and wisps, are my salvation... the very foundation trembles at your approach. The smile that hides those hollow eyes is beaming through the cracks... tempting me with explanations of yesterday and the consumption that followed. Will you prepare to feast once more, knowing I have little to nothing left to suckle upon... or must you fatten the lamb before the slaughter? It is necessary... life feeds upon life and no key can keeping you from finding me. My friends, my bookends, are long forgotten... making me your desired prey. How I wish I could erase the day I found you laying there, laying in wait... had I not reached for something to save me from drowning in the darkness, your venomous charms would have been unfruitful. I close my eyes, as the moments come close to this reunion, knowing the inevitable... you are returning and I am powerless to stop you. I must... I musn't. Whether it's ruin you will rain down upon me or solace, I crave the affirmation that I am alive... if even for but a brief moment, at any cost. I need to feel. I need to destroy. I need... this.

T.O.D. - The Gaping Maw

It becomes deafening... the clicking and whirring, voices in one accord yet disarray. Recent conversations have unearthed the once prized stability... flaming torches of confession burn away foundations in the name of desperation and unchecked passions. My breath has become powdered chalk and ash... blinding the eyes of whom I so desired to see with clarity. The cancerous mass, once labeled a tongue, infects the ears that would listen... once what was one, has now become none. As I bathe in this wake of ruin, they sing once more in revelry. Your silence was an omen. Had I heeded you luster, my words would merit a continuance... now marred, the feasting begins.


"Emotional Roller Coaster"

Up, down- loaded gun in a holster;
I am your emotional roller coaster.
Inside, outside- as I fall apart;
I feed on blood and broken hearts.
Hold on, scream- life makes you dead;
I have many unseen turns up ahead.
Turn to the left, then to the right-
I am that denizen ripping you at night.
Back and forth- we go there once more-
I've always lived by words that tore.
There is no escape from this you see-
All because you made yourself love me.

-(An excerpt from T.O.D.)

Sweeping Doorways

It occurred to me today, that perhaps sometimes people are often confused in these things I am writing about... perhaps not the message, but the intentions or laced words. So, I wanted to take a moment tonight to make somethings very clear.

Yes, at times, I can be extremely vulgar, provocative, cruel and even violent... I am not apologizing for this, not at all. Sometimes I can be very offensive... this isn't going to change. My intentions are to illustrate a point or deliver a message... above all I am passionate, but passion doesn't mean just love and rose petals. I speak lightly at times about my severe drug abuse history, the abuse I have issued and received and sometimes in the manner in which I have disrespected women in the past. Do not be mislead here... these are painted images, not necessarily how I feel about things. For example, yes in all honesty, I am a drug addict and I always will be and quite often I abuse my medications that I have been given for my physical or mental ailments... I don't condone such behavior, it's not a good thing. But I'm not going to sit here and lie about the truth either... the truth is I was a junkie and in many ways, I still am. Yes, I treated women as sexual objects and disrespected more than a few in my life.... but this is intolerable behavior! I have the utmost respect towards women... now that I have grown out of my childish ways. Women should be treated as a gift and our second half to ourselves... not nameless conquests and slaves. As for the violence, well okay, that's a bit of an issue. I am not a violent person in actions... I don't even like to be touched by family members, so I am not about to go out and start a carnal feast. However, I do have some severe issues with violent thoughts and like anyone else, I need to control my anger so those tendencies don't have a chance to arise. Again, I am not saying it's a good thing... but it's a real part of me and I consider myself to be an honest person. So, if you are offended or have been in the past... what can I truly say? I will not say I am sorry for my words or my thoughts, but I will say I am sorry you may not have quite understood the message or my intentions, thus becoming hurt. I am not here to hurt people's feelings, but at the same time I need to be true and real about myself... this can never change. At the same time, I am not writing this message tonight to portray myself as a good person... I am not. In my eyes, I am a monster that has committed some unforgivable actions and many have suffered from the chaos I have wrought. So, if you must hate me, hate me for my actions, judge me for my crimes, but be sure you understand why you feel as such. My words are a message, to you the audience but also for myself. With clarity, comes wisdom... embrace that, and look deeper into the well.

The Swallowed Soul

Several times now, I have mentioned something briefly and stated, "That's a story for another time.". I can't recall exactly how many times I've said this... whether they were about Serah Weaver, shooting the family dog, being chased by a UFO or selling my soul to Satan. I do however, remember two occasions... tonight, I will keep true to my word and share one of those stories. Whether or not you believe it to be true is entirely up to you... I quite often wonder how much of my life could possibly be true and I was there. So, tonight's tale is about... selling my soul to Satan.

After dropping out of college to sell drugs full-time, then later using full-time, I enrolled in a technical college to pursue the life of a mechanic. In one of my classes, there was this stunningly, beyond beautiful woman named Maria... I watched her walk in and out of my life everyday. I was around 19 or 20 at the time and I will be completely honest with you... attraction, affection and love are directly linked to the penis of a young man. I don't care who they are or how sensitive they appear or how much they listen... it's about sex and physical appearance. I am not agreeing with this behavior, but it is the hard, cold truth. If I had to issue an approximate age that men actually become men, instead of lust driven assholes, I would say around 28-30 yrs of age... of course, there are some that never grow out of it and remain boys forever. Anyway, my attraction and desire for Maria grew stronger and stronger as time went on. I was married at the time, with 2 cats, a dog, 2.5 children and owned a home... having an affair or even speaking with this woman wasn't something I was very eager to pursue. Instead, I watched and dreamt of her everyday in class. One day, I started to pray to Satan during these times of watching her... my exact words are long forgotten, but it was along the lines of, "Satan, I would offer my soul to you, to be with Maria... even if it was for just one night.". These "prayers" or pleas continued for the rest of the semester... sometimes not just in class, but also at home while mixing drugs and witchcraft. The semester ended and we parted ways... never once did she even notice me or did I utter one word to her. Shortly after finishing college, my now ex-wife decided to exchange her morals as a devout Muslim wife for the life of becoming an online dominatrix and porn queen. The marriage fell apart and we separated, the children went to live with their biological father's, the cat's ran away and I shot the family dog. Calm down, it was a mercy killing... he was terribly ill with a gangrenous infection. After she got her business up and running, I returned to my house to live by myself. It had been at least 2 years since I had seen Maria, but never once had her image left my mind. One night, there was a knock at my front door... it was my uncle "Pony". He greeted me with a smile and said, "Nephew, my nephew, I brought you a present!". Out of the shadows, of the front doorway, stepped out... you guessed it, Maria. I laughed and asked him, "What the fuck are you talking about?". He told me he was at the bar downtown, met this girl and found out she had nowhere to live. He told her, "My nephew has a house and he'd love to have you move in!". I had never told anyone about Maria, so things started to feel a little peculiar. I agreed to allow her and her two young boys move in the next day and my uncle and Maria left for the night... leaving me to wonder what was happening. The next day, she walked over to my house and I took her to go pick up her kids from their grand-parents house, as well as a new cat. I had to be at work in a few hours, so we sat down and watched a movie... Maria and I on the couch and the two little boys laying on the floor in front of us. She started to make sexual advances towards me... snuggling close and rubbing my inner thigh. I put my arm around her and began kissing her... things quickly became even more so heated between us. She told me, "I have to have you... I need you." in a soft whisper in my ear followed by a few nibbles. I told her in respond, "When I get home from work, I will have you.". So I went to work... my mind was completely blown. Do the math here folks... for a whole semester this woman didn't even know I existed, she was gorgeous beyond words and she was already living in my house for free! Nothing seemed to make sense. I kept asking myself, "What the fuck is going on here?". I finished my work, closed up and went home. Maria had cleaned the entire house, cooked me a fabulous meal from scratch (and I mean scratch, there was nothing in my home to eat), greeted me with a warm and tender smile... she was even wearing an apron. I was offically in the twilight zone. She offered me the food and I set it aside and we began feasting on each other. It was the most intense sexual experience of my life, even to this day. Afterward, she went to wash up and check on the kids as I ate the food she had prepared and indulged in my after-work drug consumption. She told me to go get her after I had finished so we could spend some more time together. I had hit the jack-pot here... not only was she beautiful and the perfect housewife, she didn't mind me getting wasted on drugs and she didn't even want any for herself? I thought I had died and gone straight to Heaven... everything was perfect. I ended up using far too many drugs for the night and passed out, so Maria went to sleep in my bedroom with the kids. I woke the next morning to another perfect day... greeted with a warm smile and embrace and a masterfully cooked breakfast. Then came the downfall.... a phone call from my best friend. My soon to be ex-wife was in town, at his house, and wanted to "see me". I had talked to him about Maria while I was at work the night before, so he was giving me a head's up. He laughed and said, "You're fucked bro... what do you want me to say to her?". We had this terribly dysfunctional relationship, so I agreed to go see her at his house... this meant she would also be expecting to come back home with me and spend the night and leave the next day to return to her new lifestyle. So basically, I switched into asshole mode... full scale. I told Maria to get her shit and get the fuck out of my house, now. She was heartbroken or so it appeared... I've never been good at understanding people all that well. So that was it, she walked out of the door with her two young boys and their few belongings and I kept the cat for myself. I had obtained what I had wanted for so very, very long... one night with Maria. Other than her coming to my work a night later and yelling at me for the way I had treated her... I never saw her again. It is a truly bizarre series of events and even after all of these years passed... I am still not sure what to think of it all. Did I really sell my soul to Satan? I honestly do not know, but I refer to it as such because that is really the only thing that makes sense of out this brief chapter of my life. I catch myself from time to time, thinking of Maria and how things could have been if I would have told my buddy to get rid of my ex-wife and never kicked Maria out. Even still, I wonder if I really did sell my soul and what may await me on the other side... or perhaps, I'm living soullessly and tormented now, as I pay my debt.

For You, Serah Weaver

If I had to choose a favorite song, for the time being, it would be this one. I have been listening to it a lot lately... I guess it really speaks to me in some manner. I just thought I would attempt to share it with anyone that happens to come along and visit here. As for Serah Weaver... well, that's another story for another time.

The Shivers - Beauty

Melatonin Moments

False hopes rise, in this, summer's May... adorned with strawberry viscera and perfumed decay. It wasn't always as such... fearing now, I've lost my way. All is, as it was... was, as it is. With those delicate and uncertain eyes... I've seen this all before it's born. You'll trade your repentance, for my forgiveness... yet never once will you mourn. These pages are blind and mute, with no scent to remember. Lipstick fingertips and smoke stained lips. The forbidden fruit, with intentions moot... tattooed by your milky will. Your eyes were jagged and cracked... the climatic finish to a hollow seasonal feast. As before, I have tainted your candied innocence... with it's bitterness lingering, it haunts me so. Knowing now, all that you retain... seeing you and all that I remain. How did we get so lost... at which turn did we stumble? Was it the photographs... or stripped ribbons of things left buried deep within. Transparent photographs bleed between the walls. As fingers wiggle, the children giggle... with the mind of porcelain dolls.

When The Levee Breaks

Where would we be without our support systems? Not just in reference to the mentally ill, but in general. Whether you are a doctor, head engineer or drooling idiot... we need support. We rely on it, or them, as the case may be. I have mentioned before, that a support system is the key element to my survival... so say, the men and women of white coated fame. Living with Schizophrenia is not something I can explain or something anyone can really learn about from reading... you have to live in this nightmare to begin to understand the madness. Sure, lots of people know lots of wonderful things about us, the afflicted, but how clearly is that all defined? Yes, these are the symptoms... A, B, 3. These are the treatments... pills, support, therapy. But what does that mean? Now that you know the symptoms and treatments... are you prepared to understand what all of those things mean? Auditory hallucinations for example... you hear voices that aren't really there, but you think and believe they are there. Simple. "Snap out of it you fucking whiner and get over it already!! There are no voices talking to you!"... move on, next. Oh, if only that were true. Yes, technically the voices aren't real... but to those that hear them and are crushed daily under their thumbs, they are real. They are there... and they don't want to leave. You can't wish it away... there's no "snapping out of it" bullshit here. Taking medication can remove the voices, but in my case and for many others, I am certain... this isn't an option. We have lived this way for so long, that living another way isn't possible. The last time I went on medication to remove the voices, I became even more so depressed and suicidal. They may not be good company, most of the time... but something is better than nothing at all. The point is... I can't explain to you how severe of an illness this is... it's something you have to live with or witness to begin to understand.

Forgive the side track there, we were talking about support systems. "Technical support, technical support!"... I fucking love that movie. Why can't it be that simple... where is my Vanilla Sky? Without support, things begin to crumble... thrashing about themselves like fish in shallow waters. My doctors told me not too long ago, that the reason I was as functional as I am, is because of my support system... without them I would be homeless, living under a bridge in a dampened cardboard box, covered in my own feces and proclaiming my undying love for rotten meat. Well, that is really the whole point of it all isn't it? The long stories and explanations... every road is leading somewhere. In my world, trust isn't easily obtained... yet, I am forced to trust and rely on people every single day. My family members and the other interlopers that dwell within these walls from time to time, are supposed to be protecting, helping and watching over me. Lock the doors, check for fire, water leaks, running appliances, computers, lights... please! If they don't, it takes me hours upon hours to do all of these things... checking the entire house for issues and security breeches. When you see me scratching at my arm, searching for something... please come look at it and assure me it's okay before I start cutting chunks of flesh out. If I haven't eaten in a really long time, don't sit there and yell at me about it and accuse me of having an eating disorder... help me get some food. The the road leads here... my support system is failing. They don't understand and aren't helping me... they live with me most of the time and yet they don't understand. I have a house full of checks to do, I forgot to take my medications on time, I don't remember the last time I ate and right now I have blood pouring out of my arm because I can't stop cutting at it. I sit here alone in my room suffering, while they sleep... waking them isn't an option, this night is for me and the choir to handle. It's just us, we and them... watching the water spurt, as the levee breaks.

He Said, She Saw And We Heard... Nothing

Awhile back, I had mentioned that someone asked me to consider giving an interview for a class paper / project. I was very excited about the offer and agreed... the choir had assured me this would not be happening, so my response was moot. Time passed and I agreed with them... how easily one can be shifted in perspective. Well, it did happen... someone cared enough to ask me some questions and actually wanted to know about my thoughts. Sure, it's not going to change the world or be printed up in some famous or fancy newspaper or journal... but it wasn't about that, to me. Whether or not it touched anyone's life or changed the way they look at the mentally ill...I am uncertain. As for myself, it was touching to be asked and for a brief moment it returned some lost humanity... for a moment, my chains were broken and my voice regained sound. I will close today with the interview...



1. There are many theories about the relationship between creativity and mental illnesses. How strongly to you feel they relate, or if at all?

It's relative and subjective. Why does anyone really do anything, let alone excel at them? People struggling, or perhaps suffering some would say, with mental illnesses have an inner turmoil. That pain manifests expression, creative or otherwise, and it's put forth in a manner that is comfortable. Some paint while others may write, but it isn't a flower in a vase or man toiling the earth... it's their soul and the connection that is missing with the rest of humanity. We don't relate well to the "real world" and those "accepted citizens". For the most part, we are the outcasts and the ridiculed... misunderstood and the things that happen to all the bad little children. The difficulties swarming inside need an outlet and the rejection causes a need of acceptance... where one area of the mind is repressed, another will bloom. Creativity isn't something that can be taught or learned, it's born deep within the soul... something we have buried deep inside. When you spend time locked within yourself... there you will find it.


2. I am aware that you are a fan of Edgar Allan Poe. It is said that he suffered from manic-depressive bipolar disorder. Do you believe this affected his writings? Also, what is it about his work that you are so fond of/connect to?

I do believe it affected his writings in a vast degree... not just the illness, but also the manner in which he treated it. Poe lived a life full of tragedy, which in itself aided in his writing, but more so worsened his mental stability. Chaos brings about creativity... you burrow deep within to find solace and there you find clarity through expression. Poe treated his mental illness with substance abuse as a form of self-medication. This practice is common among the mentally ill and something very familiar to myself... unmeasurable perspective can be gained from awakening covered in your own vomit and feces. Had his mind been unaffected by mental illness, perhaps he wouldn't have abused drugs so heavily. In turn, he wouldn't have fallen so deep within himself to find the clarity and insight that he expressed. Troubled as he was, he wasn't the grave-robbing, sweaty toothed madman people think him to be based on his writings. That's what makes the written word so priceless... nothing is as simple as it seems. My favorite work of Poe's would be The Fall of the House of Usher... not for the content, but the message. In a way, I deeply identify with Poe and his life... the tragedy of loss, guilt and fear. His drug addiction and fascination with sharing his thoughts freely to the unaccepting populace. The way he weaved his words into a layered tapestry of thought. "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity." ... I hear you, my friend, I hear you.


3. Do you think that schizophrenia gives you a creative advantage?

Advantage comes with the price of disadvantage. Do I feel I have a creative edge? Personally, I would answer with a resounding no. People have told me, including my doctors and therapists, that I have exceptional gift in writing. When I was younger, I played flamenco classical guitar and was labeled "gifted" and many opportunities laid themselves before me. I wonder what the others see... is it not an apple tree at all? I believe my expressions, whether in writing or music, to be nothing of significance. With the choir singing it's daily reminder of what and whom I really am, never once is talented, gifted or creative uttered... "worthless", "monster", "filth" and "kill yourself" are my compliments and validation. This disease makes living "normally" almost impossible. Even if I did possess such talents, what good would they be if my biggest goal is to bathe sometime this week? So you see, there is the disadvantage. People of a healthy mind, have the strength and drive to live life and seek out their dreams. Here I sit, with a cardboard box of scribblings making sure my front door is tightly locked.


4. When do you mainly write? What emotions are you feeling? Do you write while under these emotions or after the fact?

Usually, I write as a means of therapy. I write in a blog online and I refer to it as "my silent scream to the world". Admittedly, I don't write there daily and sometimes weeks will pass before I find the courage to put my feelings into the void. I suppose I write most during conflict of some manner... inner conflict is a constant, but it takes time to separate my thoughts from those screaming within my head. Sometimes I write within the thick of it all, lashing out venomous spit at the world in frustration. Other times, I write when my thoughts have settled in one direction. Honestly, I suppose there really isn't a pattern of when I write. It could be either when I am confronted with an issue or thought, in emotional distress or longing or when I can't take it anymore and something needs to spill out before my chest explodes. The emotions I feel are all negative and constant. This illness and my abusive childhood have rendered me unable to feel positive emotions from other people. This causes a great deal of conflict in trying to understand the emotions I am feeling towards others... especially when love enters the mind. The emotions I feel, even when writing about love, are hopelessness, fear, loss, anxiety, ire, torment, confusion and discomfort. It is difficult to write about something you have no experience with... how does one know the breath within is stale, if he has never tasted the wind? When I do write, it is sure to be filled with some type of passion... and sometimes, I am shocked at what has been unearthed. Passion... the one thing that can raise us from the grave or usher us into it.

T.O.D. - What All Want, But So Few Obtain

Once again, I am turning back the clock... to the days of wind and freedom. Showing the "other" side of myself... the one not stricken with madness, despair and festering ire. Ah, we know what it is... the love piece, how trite. Yes, I am still a sappy, bleeding heart... fucking pathetic as that may be. Just because I have never felt love or loved, doesn't mean I can't have an opinion on the matter. Save the moaning and negative commentary... I have enough coming from the choir. Sometimes, we just do things we need to do... simple as that. Spider webbed tapestry and laced words still apply... you won't get off so easily. From T.O.D. ... more of the lost.


"I Have But One Heart"

I have but one heart and soul to give-
It is buried deep inside you; it lives.
Time has passed, yet nothing has grown cold.
Still I dream of holding you, when I am old.
If you had a source- you'd flow from within.
If you had a place- it's everywhere I've been.
Again at last- you have returned life unto me-
Expressed by those tender moments; love, you see.
For there wasn't a moment I had left your side...
I grow and beat within you- in there I abide.


00.12.09

Paper Places

My morning has come and gone... there is only so much running one can do for the day before the weariness settles in for the kill. Over-tired, over-medicated, over-"clicked"... all destinations are blocked and "No Entry" appears to be the slogan for the day. I can feel the oh so, familiar feeling of my heart breaking, but I awoke with exhausted tear ducts... brittle clay now stains my cheeks. This isn't new terrain and all the proper stamps and seals are intact... proceed. Not with caution or at my own risk or certain peril... simply proceed. My chair is worn thin and the painted plastic of my mouse has been worn through.... crowned the king of shit, with no wisdom to utter and no strength to abide. It's a shame really... I went to sleep slightly encouraged. For a moment in time, I felt real and necessary... how swiftly my tormentors rip at the beating heart and smother the light swelling inside my soul. I have another appointment with one of my "paid for friends"... I'm not sure if I should laugh at that thought or smash my face into the wall. Is there really even a difference at this point... or just another bill?

Thirsty Camels

Here we are, in moments like these... where we realize the emptiness and loneliness more than ever before. I say we, simply because I am never truly alone... I have the choir singing their lullabies and the cat awaiting his moment of jubilation. As for myself... solitude would be an understatement. I played a few games this evening, not so much for the "digital therapy", but for the hope that someone would speak to me or at least notice my presence. Bouncing between an online flash game called Batheo, Facebook Games, Xbox 360, EverQuest 1 & 2, World of Warcraft, Rift, Pogo Games and Star Wars Galaxies... nothing and no one. I am truly the invisible pixel. Tomorrow I have to see my therapist... there I will be seen and the center of attention. After all, I am playing him for his time... no sincerity, tea or biscuits for this one. I tell myself often, "I don't know how much longer I can go on like this...". Perhaps the few readers I have are sick of hearing me cry about the dusted tears... some perhaps going as far as just waiting for the day that the posts stop coming. Everyday my heart breaks a little more... which is curious in it's own right. If I can't feel love, the soul emotion from the heart, how can it be breaking daily? I am debating covering myself with, "Handle With Care" packaging stickers... maybe I am too fragile? I am the cracked vase, with my splinters wedging themselves deep within the carpet... waiting for someone to take notice as I cut and rip my way into their lives... the troublesome nuisance I am so often reminded of being. We always want that which we can not have... but what about the things we so desperately need? Do I really need a friend or companion? My heart screams yes, but as for the rest... it is just the mirrored mockery of my own mind.

A Hushed Audience

Comfort and understanding... these things are of great importance to most. To me, they are instrumental... living in a world of constant confusion and emotional torment. I reach out to strangers... either as a source of comfort for themselves or friendship for us both. These attempts are beyond futile... again, I find myself questioning what it is I am working towards. My primary purpose of writing here, is that one day, somehow, in some way, I will make a positive impact on someone's life... for someone to think to themselves, "I get that....". I also write here for myself, to vent my frustrations, fears, desires... not all is as it appears to be, the written word is fluid and artistic. I am certain that people may have visited here once or twice and immediately cast judgment upon me and my thoughts... this is nothing new, nor surprising. One thing that does bother me however, is the rejection I receive when I extend myself to the world... beyond the void, stepping out of myself and trying to make friends. I have been writing here for quite some time now and I feel even more alone than I did when I started... it is hard to imagine that as even possible. I have had visitors from all around the world and one or two people that visit here whenever I write something new.... I do recognize and appreciate those few that try their best to support me. Perhaps it is shallow and insignificant, but it is hurtful that after all this time, I have no people openly following my blog and not so much as even one comment of support. I am a real person and even though I don't quite understand the feelings swirling inside... I do feel, deeply in fact. At this point, even if someone just left a comment saying, "Shut the fuck up, you sick piece of shit!"... it would be mean something. It makes me wonder if I am truly that far beneath everyone else. Friendship seems even more unattainable... an actual friend. One that communicates with you on a regular basis and without being prompted to do such... I have someone to talk to on occasion, but only if I reach out and bare my soul to them first. Even then, it is limited and awkward...no one appears to have the desire to actually get to know me on a personal level. Casual, noncommittal and lifeless. Is there more out there? I see the rest of the world with these things... I see other people writing in their blogs with everyone paying attention, caring and supporting them daily. What have I done wrong now... what new sins have I accrued? Is there even anyone out there... or in here?

The We, Not Meant For Me

By some chance, a miracle really, we were to dine together... my family and yours, an arrangement of courting. It was unexpected and welcomed with great anticipation. I sat on the couch, fondling your younger sister, as I awaited your arrival. Driven by those from within, they wanted other graces than what my heart and mind desired. Starting slowly with her toes... waiting for further advancements and stolen innocence. Soon you graced the doorway, with your elegance and beauty... the beasts within were silenced, as I took center stage. There you stood, dressed formally in a knee lengthened skirt, blouse, pantyhose and sensible shoes... lighting the room with a smile of acceptance. I returned the gesture for but only a moment... quickly noticing my soiled jeans, hole infested tee-shirt, bare feet and knotted, unkempt hair clawing at my waist. Your parents had accompanied you in this affair... equally fashionable, although disapproving. You had brought with you, two elaborate desserts... one was a cake with flowing, warm, chocolate fudge rising from the center, dancing it's way to the edges of the tray. I had no parents to call my own, only this dysfunctional gathering of a friend, a neighbor and a deviant uncle. Quickly, my neighbor scoffed at the deliciously moist cake... it was served in a fashion that was unfitting and improper. She proceeded to claw out the center of the cake with her soiled hands, smashing it vehemently... making it more suiting. After this display of primal behavior, I noticed the meal we had prepared for such an important occasion... a poor man's soup, of boiled meat and onions. A pair of rusty scissors had been stabbed through a pornographic magazine, securing it tightly to the cracked, wooden table before you had arrived... I desperately pawed at it, trying to remove it's offensive glare. Ribbons of flesh danced through the air... breasts and pubic hair falling like crematorium ashes. I gathered the bits and pieces, looking for a place to hide them... my only choice was the desk of a child. Once filled only with crayons, glue and coloring books... now it too, was robbed of it's purity. I fled in terror, removing myself to the restroom with sorrow and embarrassment as my only companions. Secured by no extra walls or door... it was a stained toilet at he end of the hallway, with a clear view of the street and falling leaves. It was being shared by an old man and a young child, as they wrote their names in the murky water... trading pencils as they wrote with laughter. I looked out the window, to see you walking away... with head down and your smile fading. You had been replaced in appearance, by the young girl from high school... whom sang the aria of Ariel the mermaid with absolute perfection, so many years before. Your hair, face and gestures no longer were your own... but it was you. Inside, the radiance declared it so. I would try again, to better all of the short comings... anything to get you to return to me just once more. I slide on my finest nylons and party dress... matching the myriads of colors of my full length beard. I grabbed my insulated barn coat and ran into the streets to find you... wrenching at the knots in my hair in hopes it would fall as pressed satin, as yours had always done before. You were nowhere to be seen. A woman, with jet black hair, in a white summer jumper stood instead with eyes of disgrace and judgment. Uncertain of her glances, I shoved my hair down into my dress and frantically tucked it into my nylons. I wept and I was once again all alone. I awoke in in my bed, sweating through my shorts and shirt... the sheets wrinkled and damp with fear and heartache. It was but a dream... but more so, a dream never to be within my grasp.

Cranberry Ashes

I survived... the dreaded day has passed. For those feeling contempt for my extended time here, I hear your screams. The cat has also informed me that I have a full year to remedy the situation and leave this world... then all will be forgiven and forgotten. Mercy is indeed a favored spice in life. I am still struggling with this ordeal and increasingly becoming more and more confused... distant and bitter perhaps in some ways. It was a day, like any other day... I awoke to the screams from within, sat at my computer and began running away as fast as possible. Whether it be by reading online or pretending to be someone else in an Xbox 360 game... setting time aside to dull my senses with pain killers and anxiety medication. Laughter, an old distant friend, hasn't called for a visit in quite some time... my emotions have been wiped away into a cloud of dissipating chalk. Sorrow, however, has accompanied me with absolute devotion. I remember being a young teenager, like many I imagine, aching to have someone love them... to hold onto those feelings recklessly, awaiting that blessed moment. I no longer await that dream... I find myself mourning it's absence. As this illness further rots my mind, I realize now that is something I will never know. It sickens me greatly and angers me even more when I think of all of the people in this world that abuse, manipulate and take for granted something as special as love. Part of me has also become quite bitter at the youth of today, thinking they know what love is... just because someone told them it was so, so they could have a quick fuck, majestically labeled "making love". Of course, of course... didn't your mothers teach you that sex is love? How daft can you be? I love you... now, let's go fuck. The world should be neutered... all of the "pimps", "studs", "playas", "sluts" and "whores" should be chemically sterilized. Fucking idiots... I pity the next generation of people to populate this world. Love is the thing that pounds within your chest and every fiber of your soul... not a swelling in your crotch. When I think about experiencing love with another person, it isn't a sexual encounter... it's being able to sit beside someone comfortably and holding them in my arms or having them hold me. To be able to have someone touch me without feeling sick inside and jerking away from them. To be able to make eye contact and smile at each other. To laugh without feeling self conscious... the little things. The simple, yet marvelous moments in which time ceases to exist. Perhaps I'm the fucking idiot...