Monday, June 13, 2005
My hope is alive in discompliance. I always take my pills, but I don't want to. They take so much, and leave me with little. I remember the old days, when I was thin, I was strong, I was even beautiful. Sleek and graceful, I stalked through the plains of my unstable existence. Sometimes I think back to the brilliance of those days with a smile. The dawn was red; it knew me like I know myself. Life was a lie, but what a lie! I yearned for understanding, like now. I was alone, like now. However, I wrote ferociously; the limits of my existence were hours between the ecstasies of pain and imagination. My life at least made sense: lonely genius in the corner looking for redemption in the shadows of his pen. Now, what is it? I'm uncovered as the madman in the corner looking for redemption in the bright lights of a keyboard's victims. Examine your screen. How much of it is mine, and how much do you want back? The limits of my existence are the hours between doses, and the ugliness I cover under a belt ten inches longer than it used to be. I'm forced to choose between the brilliance and uncertainty of my past, and the pragmatism and slow decay of my present for my future. What do you want me to do? My hope is only alive in discompliance.