One On One

It's kind of funny... now that I realize the Truth of the situation. I used to believe that a Broken heart was this murderous event of pain, torture, and torment. For example, like losing your first Girlfriend or perhaps your first marriage. Maybe a broken Heart was closer to listening to your wife being gang-banged for hours on end over a cellphone covered in Tears... or that time you murdered your best friend in hopes of being Moses on the mountain Top. Nope, all of those events, however so painful, do not illustrate a broken heart. The moment that your heart breaks, splintered into thousands of unrecognizable Pieces, there are no tears, no sighs, no Pain. The room doesn't turn black and nausea doesn't occupy all of your senses. NO. In that moment... there is nothing. Nothing at all. The air stands still and stale and you become Numb... completely numb. Nothing matters anymore. Whatever it was that pained you, tortured you before, has become pointless, moot. All fear is gone, every tear has gone dry, every emotion and sensation has been silenced. It's not the Beginning, it's not the End... it's nothing. Absolutely nothing at All. Now you know... now I know. One less thing to worry about...

What Remains To Be Found...

For those readers who've been following my writings for awhile now, you've seen me at various stages in my life and journey... arguably at my worst and at my best, functional and completely non-functional. There has been sways and spikes, crisis and rejuvenation, redemption and reprisal... a virtual cornucopia of emotions and thought. Recently, things have been much worse and I have found myself at the darkest depths of my life... although I moved across the country to better my life, ironically, sorrow and addiction have been my only lasting companions. On Saturday, unable to deal with the loss of the single most important thing in my life, I tried once again, to leave this world behind... my attempts were in vain, and as you can clearly see by this entry, unsuccessful. I couldn't bear the burden of this relentless sorrow any longer, so the daily routine of running, escape, and self-medication increased significantly... instead of stopping once I had obtained the desirable level of intoxication, I continued consuming more and more Morphine. With blurred vision and over whelming euphoria consuming the last fibers of my consciousness, choking on my own saliva because I was too high and detached to even swallow, I continued chasing that white rabbit until my body collapsed. This should have been the final stand, my desistance, the end complete... I "awoke" quite sometime later, drenched in sweat, saliva, and piss, muddled and unable to form rational thought. After yet another failed attempt at leaving this place behind, I was convinced God is a fucking sadist and he truly just wants me to continue suffering for my transgressions and failures.Days later, I still don't know how to feel about it, other than the fact that I'm fucking pissed off for having wasted so much Morphine... that was enough to keep me "stratosphere" for a week. The escape was temporary in the end, and here I find myself still unable to bear these feelings of loss and sorrow... my heart is broken beyond all repair and my desire and will are completely tapped and exhausted. Lost in the "what if's..." and "should have's...", I must face each day alone and hopeless of reunion... each breath is powdered glass and my eyes have been cried dry.

This confession speaks volumes about myself... my weakness, pathetic and hopeless nature, my addiction, and self-worth. But I'm not the only one in the spot light... now you stand center stage and it's your reflection that is captive. Depending on your reaction and thoughts, you're one of three types of individual:

- If you're filled with compassion and you're thinking to yourself, "Damn, Alabaster Frank... I love you and I'm here for you always, but I really think you need to get some type of help.", I want you to know that I appreciate your concern, compassion, empathy, and kindness. However, ironically, I am already enrolled in a Crisis Stabilization Program and I have people coming over to my house every day to make sure I am safe and getting the help that I need. The problem is that I feel dead inside and there is no remedy for that... when that tree burned down, it took away everything that I am or could ever possibly become. It was a moment of complete and absolute loss that turned my entire world upside-down and inside-out. Where do you go from here? How do you get there... or find the desire to even care?

-If you're filled with anger and you're thinking to yourself, "Shut the fuck up already! If you want to die so fucking bad, I'll fucking do it for you, you worthless, stupid, fat, fucking piece of shit!"... ah, honesty, how refreshing. I'll tell you what... send me a message, and I'll give you my address and you can come over here and do it for me, OK?

-And finally, if you're filled with mockery and lack any real courage of your own, because you're one of those people that masturbates to videos on YouTube of bullying victims crying their eyes out and self harm photographs, and you're thinking to yourself, "Ha ha, you're such a loser! I think this is so funny... you can't even kill yourself right because you're so stupid and pathetic!. Quit crying about it and try it again, so I can laugh at you failing yet again!". Sadly, if this is how you truly feel, I suppose you're even more pathetic than I am. Obviously you're so lost and soulless that you'll scour the Internet, searching and reading the blog's of people whom are truly suffering, just as a means of entertainment and escape from your own worthless and pathetic existence. I'll tell you what... I'll offer you the same courtesy as the person before you. Send me a message, and I'll give you my address... except this time, the end result will be far different, because you're clearly a spineless individual. So, this is how it will be. You come over to my house and I will beat you to death with my dick and we'll record it and post it on the Internet for other mindless fucking trolls, like yourself, so they can masturbate to your suffering for a change? How does that sound, punk-ass motherfucker? Fuck you. That's right... Fuck You!

Okay, I know that was a little on the intense side, but I just can't stand people that get off on the suffering of others and view their pain as a type of entertainment... at least serial killers have the conviction to cause that other person's suffering before they get off, ya know? It's all about manners. So there we have it... it's no secret what type of person I am or the lives I have lived. I've always been very forthcoming in sharing the pieces of my life and story with all of you. The real question is, what type of person are you? Do you have a moral compass and the power of conviction? Do you have a heart and the humanity to use it? There are some readers who have been very kind to me over the years and I want you to know that I appreciate each and every one of you. I don't know if I can learn how to be happy and healthy... I don't know if I can ever truly heal. But it is my hope that one day, I'll be able to see that I'm not alone in this void... that one day I can learn how to use my heart, just like some of you have used yours in kindness towards me.Thank you, my friends... thank you for listening and sharing this time together.

A World Within The Tree

The world, my world, has shifted... with the ground uneven and trembling, I find myself knelt before our tree. This tree, all it represents, the future and promise of tomorrow, has been my refuge and anchor in this world... a daily reminder of what flowed within, the blood, the breath, the light, all stemming from one source. Now it is but a shadow of what was, the tongue that tore it apart and unearthed it's roots from my heart... the salt from my eyes has poisoned the ground, and all that was is no more. Perhaps it is my limited understanding of what happened, the events that unfolded so quickly and the overly polite exits that followed. The reminder of what would always be, rather than what is... a clear precursor to the change that would immediately alter the relationship.Redefinition. Loss. Each word was in vain, every action was without hope... all I could do was watch as the door closed, as the tree became unearthed, choking on the tears that relentlessly fell upon the burnt ground. It was then, that this time I knew for certain that things were different... despite the promises and assurances, I knew those words were only spoken in kindness, not truth. The truth was something quite different, it was the dark I had feared coming... and how dark it was. For hours I wept uncontrollably, pleading with myself that the end had not yet settled in... that there could be a tomorrow, a purpose, some hope. But these things will never come, for they died at  the foot of tree... the one that sheltered us, listened quietly to our conversations, and wore our initials on her chest. When Tuesday met Friday, and how quickly he knew that he loved her... the kind of love that is only written about, and so rarely seen or felt. All this loss and sorrow, not even a day after I discovered our tree was a girl... just like the chair. Do you remember? How quickly we forget always...

The Earth Beneath Me

Once again, I have returned... it has been quite a long time since I have written and shared my thoughts, compulsions, or sorrows. Around the time of my last post, I had just returned to the world of addiction and slavery to the flesh, after having been sober for a great many years. To any of those hoping this addiction would have killed me by now and removed my delusional rantings from your lives, I sincerely apologize... please know that it hasn't been do to a lack of efforts on my part. I suppose I should be a more efficient drug addict and overdose within a more reasonable amount of time. Stay tuned... your wishes may be granted soon enough.

Lots of things have been happening and changing in my life... some things for the better, some for the worse, and some that just don't really seem to matter or change regardless of my surroundings and placement in this world. The earth is firmly beneath my feet, in the physical aspect, and quite honestly, I'm not quite sure how to feel about that. My depression has grown worse despite my efforts to both better my life and run away, like a frightened child, by self-medicating... some days are worse than others, but the desire to leave this world has remained a constant. Mentally speaking, the earth is nowhere to be found.... neither above me, nor below me, as I float around aimlessly in a state of constant delusions and hallucinations. After years of trying to survive in my environment, I packed my belongings are moved across the country, with my cat in tow, to my town of birth, where I am living completely alone in grandparent's old house... the have both passed on and I am living here in a caretaker capacity, oddly enough, when I can't even take care of myself. The good news to this situation is that I am no longer living in the abusive situation I was previously, and I no longer have to lock up every single thing I own in fear that it would be stolen from me. You would think this change in life would have lowered my stress immensely, but I suppose the other changes that came along with this decision, have sent a shock-wave of disruption throughout my life.I've had the challenge of learning how to live alone for the past 7 weeks now, and in all honesty, I am not doing a very good job. Trying to juggle the responsibilities of taking care of myself, the cat, and a home, all while being a drug addict has been extremely difficult. Most days I have no desire to even get out of bed, and if it wasn't for the painful and obnoxious withdrawal from the opiates, I wouldn't get out of bed at all. Each morning, I drag myself out of bed so that I can get my fix and then I sit, nodding away, at my desk... rinse repeat, rinse repeat. I'm not sure if it's the drug addiction or my inability to remember to do the common tasks of normal people, like eat at a scheduled time, but for some reason I've been losing a fair amount of weight rather quickly... 25lbs in the past 7 weeks. At first, I thought this was a good thing, seeing how I believe myself to be hideously fat and disgusting, but now I am not so sure... I suppose my feelings have turned to indifferent.

Am I happy, with myself and my new surroundings? Yes and no. Quite honestly, I don't want to be a drug addict and I'm really fucking pissed off for putting myself in this situation in the first place. I just couldn't handle the stress of my previous environment, and I needed a way to escape. Now that I've removed myself from there, I remain a slave to the opiates because I can't deal with the decisions I've made and the people I hurt when I left... I see those faces over and over again, haunting and taunting me, until I run to the nearest exit of self-medication. It's a vicious cycle... I use because I can't handle the stress, yet using is stressful. I do want to get sober again... in fact, I know this is something I must do rather soon. The problem is I don't believe in myself enough to try... and even if I did, I would have to face those skeletons dancing in the closet. What would you do... do you even care?

Looking For Tuesday

Forsaken by my own thoughts... the ebbed sensations replaced by shadow, stick figures seeking for lost dinner plates. My conscious has been replaced by the flaky paste of dried saliva, mucous and tears. Like stained teeth gnawing through dried, cracking lips... the empty gaze of puzzled thoughts, only this one remains void. Existence breed with chaos. Dignity lost among the mannequins. Whether a Shepard's crook or the Devil's hook... the destination, has only but one name. Can you still see me, as I lay here in this soiled grave?

Full Length Mirrors

Recently, I've learned the difference between feeling alone and actually being alone. Because of my disassociation with people and emotions, I've felt alone all of my life... whether or not people are in my life or my home. I could have someone in the very next room, yet I would feel all alone... like there was no one to care or even feign their compassion. As most of my readers know, I've been having difficulties with the people that I live with for several years now... constant stress, betrayal, and theft. Recent events led to the removal of these people from my home... the tension had grown so immense due to the constant discovery or more thefts, that I finally snapped and a physical altercation arose. I've been living in this house completely alone for almost two weeks now... well not completely alone, because my companion animal is still here. These people had been in my life for the past 12 years and their removal has been both good and bad. In their absence, my stress and the tension have been significantly reduced and the comfort in knowing the thefts have finally stopped has been like a weight lifted from my shoulders. For the past 12 years, these people have been family, and even though they held that title, I still felt alone... unwanted, unloved, unappreciated. Over the course of those years they would attempt to tell me otherwise, but the nature of my feelings never changed. Despite their efforts and my own, I felt alone. Now that I am living here all by myself, things feel different.... I'm starting to notice the difference between the feeling of being alone and, in fact, being alone. Now that the "family" has parted ways, the feigned affection has also disappeared. At the beginning, several people including other family members, "friends", and my doctors, expressed concern and compassion... telling me such things as, "we care about you..." and "we are here for you...". Despite their words, no one has taken the time to check in on me or return my efforts to communicate with them. I find this strange because everyone expressed great concern for a number of years, on whether I would be able to live on my own... the concern was that I would get lost in my delusional world and the hallucinations and neglect would ultimately end in my death. Surprise, surprise... even with my recent return to drug addiction, I am still very much alive. Now that the basis of such "promises" and concerns" walked out of the front door with the people that once lived here, I am experiencing what it truly means to be all alone. I spend my days still locked away in this room, even thought the entire house is empty. For years, I've expressed that this room was much like a prison cell, and it appears more so than ever before, that it in fact is one. I'm not experiencing any increased sorrow due to the lack of warm flesh within these walls, nor do I feel lonely. But there is a difference, to be sure. For all of those years, I felt alone, but it was accompanied with words assuring me that I wasn't, despite my feelings on the matter. Now that those "assurances" have disappeared, even though I never believed them, things feel completely different. Now I understand the difference between feeling alone and being alone.I'll admit, even though I never believed those words being expressed to me or the "feigned affections", it does sting a little to know they were only words all along. Conformation can be a bitter and cruel mistress, indeed. I guess the most discouraging thing I'm experiencing, is the realization that all of those people may have been right about my inability to survive alone. My hallucinations have increased significantly as has my drug consumption and the neglect to my bodily needs has also increased. Even though I spend most of my time in bed, I'm not really sleeping all that well... it's more of a drug induced incapacitation. I've always forgotten to eat on a regular basis, but now even when I am reminded by hunger and distress that I need to eat something, I won't because it involves a lengthy and stressful ordeal of counting and verifying that the refrigerator is closed and properly sealed. I do eat eventually, usually when my stress is low enough to handle the series of checks and verifications or when I am too fucking high to care to count. It is a problem. It's things such as this, which has me wondering if they were right all along. Either way, there is nothing I can really do about it. This realization of the difference between being and feeling alone, has been enlightening. My emotional stability is about the same as before and quite honestly, I'm not struggling with the change and this realization. I'm not writing about it because I feel sorrow or even confusion, I'm writing about it because I recognize the difference now. In a lot of ways, the two feel very much the same... yet at the same time, there are some differences. I guess the biggest one being conformation. However, after several years of wanting to be free and having the opportunity to live alone, I do believe the good out weighs the different. Change has never been something I've felt comfortable with, but this change is welcomed and long awaited. It can seem a bit daunting at times, but the peace of knowing I shall not be subject to more betrayal is comforting, to say the least. I can only hope they're all wrong and that this is something I can do... that I can survive on my own. As much as I crave death and departure of this world, I need to make this work... I just have to.

The Powder Room

A perverse amount of time has passed since I have been able to come here and document the pathetic nature of my life... or what passes for the excuse of living life. I am indeed not living, rather I am nothing more than a slave to addiction, torment and debauchery. Within these walls of script, that have outlined the nature of my various failures, crimes and transgressions, you've become familiar with the monster that wears the face of humanity and mingles among the living. Most of the events written within, require some deduction and thought to fully appreciate their significance and meaning. This will not be the case today. For the message I have to share today, needs not the lattice and veiled approach... the dirt upon my face and the spittle foaming in the corners of my lips speak for itself.

About three months ago, I returned to the rabbit hole and the denizens within... once again engaging in the dance of substance abuse. They welcomed me passionately, as I returned to the embrace of lost lovers... the orgasm of flesh and mind, as the drugs consumed any remaining remnants of pride and self-worth. The affair did not end there, for it has become a daily exercise of humiliation and debasement. The seductress of choice this time around is opiates... more specifically, Dilaudid. Once I awake for the day, within moments I've ingested enough to send my body into a nodding delirium. The ecstasy washes over me and the foot race ensues... running frantically from the stress of the day and the demons that devour my remaining sanity. Once the slightest sign of sobriety approaches, I return desperately to the bedroom floor of my mistress and expose my milky flesh in exchange for another dose of orgasmic bliss. The dance continues all day long, day after day, without rest and an endless amount of remorse. I've become a whore to my drug and myself... a junkie and an established author of failure.


Of course, all of this is a descriptive way of informing you that I have once again starting abusing drugs. NO, I am not whoring myself out for drugs and there is, in fact, no mistress or drug dealing rabbits. As you already know, I suffer from chronic pain due to some injuries to my back, neck and leg from long ago. It is also well known that even though I was sober for over ten years, I still displayed behavior of a drug addict by hoarding my pain medications. So you see, there is no need to sell my body for drugs or even associate with a drug dealer, because I have a near endless supply of opiates at my disposal. I suppose that's why I chose to abuse that particular drug... availability. As for what lead me down this path, that's a different story entirely. Yes, there were circumstances, but the biggest factor would be weakness. Yes, things were said and certain event transpired, but the decision was ultimately mine and mine alone. No one forced me to start using again... I took that leap all by myself.

When I stopped using drugs before, it became a common occurrence to have people tell me things like, "It won't last" and "Once a junkie, always a junkie". I suppose part of me became accustomed to this attitude from others and their cruelty and ignorance. At the same time, I suppose part of me always remained very sensitive and hurt my these thoughts. Perhaps that's why what followed had such a profound impact on my decision to start using drugs again. For a little over a year now, I've had a very strong desire to have a child of my own.... to raise a family that I had a role in creating. This idea, this thought, has become something that I yearn for greatly. Not too long along, someone very close to me, at the time, told me something very callous and cruel. They said they would never even consider having a child with someone like me, a former drug addict, because they would only return to that lifestyle and ruin the life and childhood of their child. Hearing this, broke my heart and shattered my dreams and desires... as if my face were brutally thrust into a mirror and I was force fed the shards of broken glass. This person supposedly cared for me and called themselves my friend... to hear something so hurtful really had a profound impact on my fragile and limited self-esteem. I was fueled with anger and rage... all of the voices came running back to the front line. "Once a junkie, always a junkie!". I thought to myself, "Why not? Fuck it! Let them be right... I don't give a fuck anymore!". The stress in my life had become unbearable and my hopes of leaving this apartment and living on my own had only become more and more complicated and delayed. So I needed an escape. I needed a way to leave all of this bullshit behind me. So I did. I closed my eyes and said "Goodbye" to my ten years of sobriety and returned to the place I once swore I'd never see again.

So here I sit... three months into this addiction that has a firm grasp on my soul and testicles. I have no one to blame but myself, and truthfully, I don't. I did in the beginning perhaps. But now, it is very clear to me that this was a decision of my own making and design. I'm not comfortable with it, by any means. In fact, I fucking hate it. At first, I was hoping it would just kill me... then I could finally say goodbye to this pathetic excuse of an existence. However, as I've stated countless times before... nothing is ever as simple as we'd like it to be. For now, let's just say I'm no longer satisfied with the idea of dieing from this addiction... it's something I wish to remove from my life, so that I can begin a new chapter. A chapter worth living. But that's a story for another time.

For now, this is all I have to share on the subject. For those of you that consider yourselves my friends... I am truly sorry that I've let you down and become something less than human. For those of you that desire to judge me on my short comings and "knew this day was coming"...  go fuck yourselves, you self-righteous, mother fucking leeches.

The Scar Tissue Incident

Something needs to give... whether it be my will or the relentless assault on these cursed emotions. I'm broken... the chewed toy buried in the backyard. Slowly digested by time and these acidic thoughts... the poisonous neglect of those claiming to care. I am alone. It's nothing new... in fact, I should have been hardened to this truth long ago. Yet, I believe those sweet words when uttered in my leprous ears... all the while knowing those eyes have become callous and filled with deceit. The venomous beauty... my sweetest torment. It only serves to fuel the already overwhelming hatred I feel for this pathetic mass called a man... I am neither a man, nor the moppet. I am the willing bitch... a whore to desired affections and the centerpiece of insecurity. I hate you... I fucking hate myself. I spend my time rocking in the womb, weeping for the things forgotten and running from those remembered... strangulation and humiliation, the comforts of this diseased edifice. I still yearn for those possibilities at night as I clutch my pillow... the echoing words of what was shared and desired. Though I now see the words for what they are, slivered glass embedded in a cancerous gullet... my heart aches for the veil to once again shroud the deception. How I long for it...fuck! The irony is thick, for now I take on the role of the fattened calf... to gurgle and spit, over and over as you thrust and penetrate my throat with your rusted, forked tongue. The daily ritual, of you, the unsatiated sadist... my captor and false prophet. Filed in line, behind the others... to claim the place as my muse and infection. Seeping through my skin and bubbling my blood black... the deepest cut upon my soul. It cannot heal... lest I refuse the candied scabs you offer me. Why? Fucking why? Is it so tasty... does curdled blood moisten that cunt you call a heart? I suffer your words and the lack thereof. Why do I cry? Why the solemn and wounded expression on my face? Because I've return to where I was once before... before the time of hope and desire. A time of misery and despair, torment and sorrow... just as you found, only this time, broken beyond mending. I understand now, Layne, those words of fighting all alone... more so than I did before. Praying for safe passage, as the shroud of companionship rots. Richard insists that the only comfort and love that will ever reach this heart, is the sultry drip of a needle buried in my arm... the thickened saliva and sweaty teeth of the dirt filling my chest and powdering my nose. The brick that bathes my gullet... warm whiskey and soiled cotton. The boot offers an erection... the salty, metallic taste escorting my orgasm. I need the release. I need the numbing nod. I need the escape. I need the end...

Raise Your Glass

I've been trying to figure this out... the sorting of odds and ends, little children and decimal points. If two makes three, then why would a fourth make only one? Lots of things in my sheltered, little world have been changing rapidly... the razor swam violently through the folds of that bloated neck. There was no blood or squirming... only a whimper, accompanying the pus and bile.

Richard came and visited me last night... it has been awhile since he displayed the strength and resolve to speak his mind unhindered. He poured me a glass of bleach and offered his opinions with malice and buttered toast. He told me to drink and to forget... forget this madness of emotions and purpose. That the road that awaits me has nothing more to offer... just the worn soles and blisters upon my feet. For once, I think he may be completely correct... there is nothing waiting down there for me, only more regret and heartache. If I were to die today, right this fucking moment, there would be nothing to prove my worth or existence. Perhaps some photographs that could be anyone really, no accomplishments or achievements. I have these scribblings on digital paper and a cardboard box of tangible delusions... nothing more, not respectable in the least. I have skeletons living in boxes.. more fingers and toes. Just waiting for their release... my secrets would come undone when the vultures come to pick through my carcass and memories. Letters and bits of hair, wrapped in shame, and the clothing they once wore... and finer too, are the cotton few, that line those photograph's tomb. No one would come to my funeral... for there wouldn't be anyone that would arrange it. My grave would shallow and unmarked, much like my life... nothing to remain when the dust comes home. My only "friends" and "companions" are in the digital world... no one touches my flesh or dries my tears, just the cracking skin of my own hands. Richard knows well, his words paint my empty canvas... but his resolve is nontransferable. I reek of cowardice and I lack the strength to end this mockery of an existence. I fucking hate it here... and I hate you, for fucking bringing me back.

Run Away

I've failed, yet again. Disappointment washes over my swollen limbs and fevered heart. I wanted so desperately to write here often and I can't seem to accomplish that... these pages have been becoming more and more neglected as time creeps forward. The only reason I'm here now, writing, is because I feel so fucking lost and broken... I need the distraction to stop me from just giving in and ending this pitiful existence.

Things have continued to fall apart... despite my efforts to live my life without the echos of guilt and shame. The mirror reminds me, family reminds me, and even now the one I hold closest in my heart is a constant reminder of my short comings and past. It wasn't so long ago that I was so enthralled and encouraged to be a better man... that dream died the moment I shared my past with her. I am now unfit and untrustworthy to be a man worthy of a life and family... I'm forever scarred with the man I used to be. Truthfully, people generally don't change... they just become better at hiding their dirty little secrets and compulsions. But it can indeed happen... I'm proof of that. But what's the point of changing if people will only remember what was... forever clouding their eyes to what now is and the things to come? It weakens my faith and purges any hope of redemption and solace.

I just want to be happy... is that too fucking much to ask? How those elegant and captivating eyes have turned to dull, rusted daggers... stabbing at my throat and drowning the children in curdled blood, as my gullet swells and overflows with yesterday's bile and shame.Why? Why can't it? Why can't we...

Fingertips & Bruised Lips

I apologize for the lack of entries... life has become, complicated, once again. My goal was to post on a regular basis... everyday in fact, if that would at all be possible. It's no surprise that things seldom turn out the way we expected them to be... life has a way of dry fucking you, despite the copious amounts of lubrication on hand.

It's been about two weeks now since I rebelled and rejected the poison... the Choir has returned to full strength and I've left the chains of center stage behind. It was decided that we should also discontinue the anti-depression medication... not a choice made purely by myself. They all had a hand in this conclusion... two fingers per sandwich and one always left dry. Richard has remained in the background... praying and chanting in rhythm with the Choir and restless screams. The children continue to rot in the gasping gullets... the blood quenches their thirst no longer. The definitions of suffering and torment have stretched like the bellies of fattened calves ready for slaughter... rocking back and forth in the middle of the night, as the faces leap single-filled from the closet. It's not a matter of adjustment... it's the fallout of evolution. The more I try to realize some measure of value, the images shift their perspective and innocence... there is no "I" in team, but there is a "Me". Self-preservation... the cautionary tale of genocide. Part of me is still clinging on to the promises and assurances of Richard... the destination is the same, it's only the path and his companionship that is of the question. His strength has been proven in the recent past, so his wrath is a continual concern... he may be still for the moment, but he is very much aware and waiting. With Diana's continued absence, my support has dwindled considerably... the majority of my support has been reduced to the internal, for my resources and companionship in the real world are beyond limited. My cat and my doctors are the extent of my social reaches... digital and delusional persons excluded, of course. Perhaps I need to widen the horizons... venture into the real world and sink my toes into the earth. Replace the X with 0808 and do what was once denied...

Bury One, To Birth The Other

Once again, time has been altered... this time due to a fault of my own. The Devil's pills and festered wills... that quelled the din within. There is little doubt that my appearances have once again become scattered and my style somewhat altered... the stage was cleared and I was left alone to swim through the emotions and vibrations of day to day living. Writing had become difficult... almost torturous. I would have to actually sit down and calm myself and focus before I could write even the simplest form of expression. Never before had this been a problem... the blood was backing up in my throat, and the children began to drown. After much thought and several breakdowns, I stopped swallowing the poisonous pill. It has only been but a few days, but already I feel The Choir gaining strength and Richard his resolve. The breakdowns were triggered but all of this overwhelming emotion... new and old ones alike, I'm just not equipped to interpret all of these incoming transmissions. One Station with a magnitude of operators... that's how things have always been. And so they shall be once more. I was terribly lonesome and afraid... with no one left to council or console me in my time of need. When the waters became too high there was no one left to steer the ship. I could never leave center stage and escape into the quiet... the bitter, sweet torments of the quiet. Stillness was removed. Richard had all but grown quiet, but never fully gone... he demonstrated his true will and strength the day of my last breakdown. Filled with rage, he made me realize that you cannot run from who you are... it's always there, waiting. Enter the breakthrough... it's time for a new game. It was then that I realized, truly and fully, the real problem... it's not Richard or The Choir, the problem is me. All of this time I've been focusing my thoughts and energy on the past and how terrible of a man and human being I truly was... was, being the operative word. Sure, I have a past... several in fact. I've done unspeakable things and committed heinous acts against God, Nature, and Humanity... these things can never be changed. No matter how much blood and sweat I spill, there is erasing the past... it is written and it is done. What I didn't understand was that I am not subject to live in the past... I must live for today. The man that lived for the flesh is gone... his deeds may remain, his guilt, his shame. But that man was buried long ago... it is time I let him rest and forget. Instead there is myself, taking his place and moving on in this world, in life. Despite the past, I realized that I am a good man... the man that is here now. An honorable, giving, thoughtful and respectful man. I may not be perfect, but what I am... ain't all that fucking bad.

Awaiting Dawn

The road is long and winding... the cracks in the earth cause my body to waver, unsteady in my new shell. The excitement is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time... each breath becomes a new experience, a new sensation that must be savored. I find myself oftentimes, sitting along the roadside, dwelling in those moments of bliss and wonder... those moments when we are together and the pieces nuzzle tightly together. I spend hours there, just lost in all that is your splendor... without care or caution, I bathe in the grass and downy feathers. Then when night comes, like the villains of yesterday, and I'm left exposed... no shelter, no solace, just the idle hands and tongue lashings in disguise. My footing is lost, as I cower at the sound of my own voice... a new Master to whip and pick the flesh. The dark is long and without mercy... as my knees further grind the tears into their sockets. I wanted a voice, I wanted the pasture... but in those hours I question my resolve. We can slither among the cracked and dripping glass or we can remain until the green sun rises once more. I met Yesterday last night, as I waited... she didn't look quite the same.

Project Humanity Update

Yesterday marked the 100th day of my photo project... I know, I know, everyone is so excited about viewing 100 fucking photos of this pathetic retch of a creature. On the plus side, I'm not posting any of those photos here, so you are free to just read my mindless chatter for the moment. Thank God for small miracles, right?

Seeing how 100 is a perfectly round number and a modest accomplishment, I was faced with a decision to either continue or end the project. I never stated how long this would continue, but rather purely focused on the healing part of this journey. Sadly, the healing never came... or at least nothing monumental. I still think I'm hideous, disgusting, and extremely overweight and pathetic... thank you, Mother. Of course that's not to say other unexpected paths were discovered and some truly inspiring and wonderful events have been uncovered... vague, always so fucking vague! It's really not a mystery, my friends. If you've read along and followed the project... I would say things are quite clear. So after much debate and a few conversations with some of you, someone else, and my therapist, I decided to continue doing the project. I'm still not putting a date or number on it, but rather just taking it day by day. Perhaps if I focus less on the actual miraculous healing I desire to discover and just continue traveling this path... then maybe, just maybe, the wounds can begin to heal in their own time. For those of you that would like to witness this spectacle first hand, I will add a link to the fiasco at the end of this post.

Before I go... I would like to take a moment to thank all of you for your support, encouragement, comments, devotion, and inspiration. Knowing that I'm not alone has made this journey so much easier to stomach. Be well and with peace... more madness will follow shortly.

Project Humanity

One Thing

If you could do anything, or have anything right this moment, no delay or price... what would you choose?


Personally, I stick a fucking knife through my throat until the warm blood spewed across my bedroom walls...

Sweet Surrender

Living as a monster was easier... the daily task of hating myself was almost natural. Trying to live now, feeling, is exhausting... it hurts and my fingers are chewed to the nubs. Why can't I lay on the cold pavement, pretending none of this has happened to me? Can't I just assume the fetal position and welcome the dry, cracking shafts back into my body... as they feed on my musky blood and self-worth. Why must I continue to feel something that only promises more suffering? I never thought something so wonderful could cut so deeply... I was a fool. I understand better why people do the things they do to throw the pearls before the swine... it's for sanity's sake. I'll cut off my own arm, before the rats have a chance to gnaw it clean through. Perhaps it's cowardice, perhaps it ignorance... but I feel lost in this new open world, where terror and insecurity lurk around the shadowed corners. I know I've stated it before... for everything is a cost, a price that must be paid. I surrendered my old life for a new one... the price was the new life would be short lived, if it even lived at all. I can't make sense of this... there is no one in here to ask, no guides or voices to shelter my heart. It's a vast, open arena of torment and heartache... for the garments are too thin to shield the tender. to be reminded of the things I can never have, never touch, never experience... the taunting reminder infused with power. I gave my life, to another, in exchange of the memory that I'm not the one to hold our life together.

Center Stage

Time has been altered.. a new format arises to the occasion. Standing before you, is only myself... withered and weeping. For the past several days, I've been trying to get used to the idea of having a voice... searching desperately to deserve this passing into a new era. The damage is severe and I find myself wavering between moments of extreme joy and abysmal sorrow...the tipping scales have turned the balance from one extreme to another. I'm still lost and the fear is settling into view. I know very few people, and those that are considered trusted are even fewer still... the opinion is that I somehow deserve this new found joy and gateway to redemption. Yet the mirror casts the same image it always has... suffering in guilt and shame are hardly a reasonable price to pay. I am the fool that would tear his own leg off, to serve as a weapon to beat themselves into submission... I need not a Choir, for I am the myriad of enemies storming these castle walls. Still throned, as The King of Shit and Ash. When all is lost, every remaining scrap of dignity, I find myself staring into those precious green eyes, dusting myself off, and finding the strength to stand once more. Those windows welcome the warm air and breathe fresh life into me all over again... reborn every morning to stand on center stage and forge my own destiny. I never dreamt that I could truly feel this way... now I just need a reason to truly deserve it. My Love and My Throne... and the distance that separates us.

The Empty Crowd

I've been away... wandering through the fields of feelings. It has become somewhat silent since I started the medication.... Richard is slipping away and The Choir is still, once more. Already I feel such a loss, the despair tearing through my heart and ripping it out of my chest. For the first time, in a long time, I'm all alone. One bitter sweet occurrence is the emergence of emotions... with things quiet inside my head, I'm able to feel all kinds of terrible emotions. Terrible because I can't control the force in which they spew... terrible because I hurt so bad. Tonight was the first night that I actually cried tears... not a dry, reluctant sob, but actual tears flowing down my cheek and running into the sides of my mouth. A few days before I decided to take the medication, I had a breakthrough in my emotional growth... it was unexpected and shocking. I felt a warm sensation burning within my stomach and up into my chest... it was a birthing of positive emotions. Those long awaited feelings had become to awaken inside my heart and opened a never before seen world to me. But now looking with clarity, I know the price of such joyous emotions... nothing is free and without cost. Yes, I felt something unknown... it was love. And now that the voices are slipping away, I can hear my own thoughts and fears as they turn those beautiful emotions into suffering. This my life really better now... feeling what I feel and knowing what I now know? It's different. It's difficult, to say the least. But those moments of happiness and love, when they come, are so moving and earth shaking in my core being. I really don't know. If life remains void as it has been, then perhaps the price is too high. But if offered a chance to dwell in and out of those moments, even for a short while... then perhaps, yes. Indeed yes. Though life may never be liveable... at least I am living now. That's worth something...

Swallowed Greetings

Over a short period of time, Richard has taken control of the stage... growing stronger inside in both voice and influence. He has silenced the agenda of the choir and now leads them with one voice, one direction... the finale that shall either be my end or rebirth. My will is subject to his authority... often making me do things I have no desire to do. I've become the puppet, and he, my Master... pulling my veins, the bloody strings of delight, moving me into position for the dance of a lifetime. I now have a decision to make... continue the dance or silent Richard with medication. The decision seems easy... silent Richard and continue living my life. You should know by now, life isn't easy and the simple path often ends in destruction. I know Richard is out of control, but he does have some valid points... opinions and theories on how to change the rules and end the enslavement I suffered for so long. Our ideas differ, I'm sure... Richard often talks of storm clouds that shall rain down it's red, thick vengeance. But he also takes of escape... tearing down the walls and feeling the sun on our frigid back. If Richard goes away, then so shall the choir, and the few lingering visits of Diana shall been ceased entirely. I could lose my passion and the creative force behind my torment... for certain, I will be alone. That in itself is terrifying... finding the strength on my own to build a new life. I know things need to change, I need to step outside of the past and present, so that I may reach the future... one that I know could be if I had but the chance. I've seen the future and what hides behind the curtain... something wonderful and beautiful, things I remember from lives in the past and the pages of literature. The question however remains... swallow the pill and make my destiny, or refrain and let Richard take me there? The bottle is sitting, sealed, on my desk, just but a few inches away... what should I do? Please...

My Shoes For Silhouettes

If I could choose one point on the wall... it would be to stare through it and become free once and for all. Life is quickly becoming complicated in various avenues, but the distance that has been covered is staggering... there may be a destination to this cruel and bitter footrace. Something inside has stirred, something unlike before... this part has no worms, ash, or debris. It is pure and innocent... something that was long forgotten and undeserved. The gears that meshed and the eyes that bleed, now serve a purpose in this grand design of flesh and torment... though the journey has been treacherous and filed with the constant urging of suicide, I feel some hope returning. Unexpected and welcome, this has made every shredded ribbon and screaming, dry thrust worth the pain and sorrow. Trading nightmares for pillow kisses and fresh linens beneath my quivering skin. It shall be a moment to last a lifetime... the moments together, finally.