Sunday, October 30, 2005


In my dreams, they follow and become nightmares. No matter what activity or thought is at hand, the little bits of voices are always nearby. The sound of their torment ranges from small whispers predicting the next word in every conversation to a choir lamenting the loss of another moment to their song.

I don't fear much in life. Violence doesn't scare me: physical pain is a joke. Every instant feels like another, so I'm not as afraid of tomorrow as I was yesterday. The greatest fear in my life is their pursuit. For a long time, my hope hinged on peace in love, death, and understanding. With their accompaniment into my love and mangling of any understanding, only death seems safe. What leaves me cold and awake at night are not just the memories that never match, but the growing fear that when my time comes, they will follow. Every hour of every day, they remind me of their presence in some small way: as my past changes from a moment, to a memory, and to another dream, they follow and become nightmares.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


is my favorite question. Why was Jacob blessed above Esau? Why was David beautiful to God despite killing a man for no other reason than to be with the dead man's wife? Why was Job restored while I remain on my dung heap? Why was justice absent from my childhood? Why was I denied adolescence and adulthood by the onset of my disease? Why do some receive mercy from Legion by the finger of God, while I am left in full occupation?

I wander through my life expecting everything to have a motive, to operate on justice instead of order. Furthermore, I expect justice in exchange for virtue and truth. I give nothing but virtue, say the truth, and recieve not justice, but pain. I suppose sometime I'll have to reconcile with not being a favortite in His eyes. Admittedly, my armor of faith is more of an open screen door to torment from myself and others, but where is my protection? Why is there no herd of pigs to take away the Legions of my madness?

I admit it: I'm jealous of you. All those who wrong me end up successful; I end up more and more insane every day. Is it really so bad to want from my position? Perhaps the jealousy and coveting are the reasons for my misery, but where does that leave my happiness? I've long suspected that happiness lies at the tip of my Brother's knuckles or the lash of my father's belt: they succeed while I fail. However, if my task is to find joy in pain, I will always fail. I can endure a lot of pain, but I still can't bring myself to like it. I'm close with physical pain, as evidenced by the scars on my hands well documented in this blog, but the loneliness and melancholy will always bother me most, it seems.

Saturday, October 15, 2005


I sit with silence in my ears, but a battle in my head rages between memories and fears. One could say I hear the hostilities, but hearing is far too imprecise to describe the carnage. Every ounce of doubt and regret builds up until the borders won't hold aggressors, and my howling lament erupts into words that only I seem to notice. I write them down, but no one seems to understand.

I wait with silence in my ears, but pills in my palm to greet midnight. One could say I welcome the impossible days and unbearable nights in this world not of my choosing, but obviously of my invention. Every ounce of me misses closeness, misses trust: misses love; melancholy seeps into words to which all others seem indifferent. I wrote them, and shouted them in the streets, but met myself on the road, and strangled him.

Now, I write with silence on my lips, but a pen in my hand to shape tomorrow. One could say I write from love, but love evades me like the perfect words for this moment. Every ounce of ink defies odds and logic the same way, and litters my pages with flurries of poetic brilliance punctuated by eternities of verses so ugly, only sheer anonymity can consume them. I withhold nothing from my chronicles, but the melancholy fuel for my stationary poetic inertia ensures the pursuit of their passages to remain nameless, misunderstood, and unloved.

Everyone misses something, I believe. I miss happiness: a delusion I briefly defined with my undeserved devotion, accepting the words "I know" instead of "I love you," and a desire only reciprocated in my imagination. How foolish am I? All the pills, pens, and promises for peace can't satisfy my silent habits, conceived in madness, carried in words, and condemned in the verses rehearsed in my thoughts for an audience of none.

Friday, October 14, 2005


I last updated this blog a week ago, but not much changed in the difference. Remaining in my unconquerable melancholy, my life seems static and passive: I'm waiting for something good to happen to me. I'll probably be waiting for a long time. I miss close human contact. I miss feeling wanted, needed, and appreciated; I feel desperately alone despite any circumstances otherwise. Every night is a battle for sleep. I talk a good game, but I want to quit on the stool like Kostya Tszyu. As I struggle to slumber, I feel like I continue to slip, no matter what circumstances arise. It's been a while since I've written poetry; I can't remember writing less than now. I guess I just seek too much understanding from writing, and I'm dissapointed in the results. I feel mute. Every day is a challenge to be heard: A challenge I never seem to meet.

Friday, October 07, 2005


When I get sick, my writing and speech cease to make coherent sense. I wrote the two posts below in a psychotic state. They are plagued by point of view errors, unfinished thoughts, and awkward, inappropriate reasoning. My thoughts are like that now more often than not; I hope I've not lost readership from it, although I fear I have. I don't know what to do, and I still find not even a shred of love or understanding. I've given up on justice.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Thoughts on Letting Go

I'm close to ending this, closer than any of you know. I put only virtue into my life, and receive only pain. Is it so wrong to want?

Every day, I slip a little more. How far is enough? I accept a state of being now that eight years ago I would not. The last thing Prester Bane said to me after my game of russian roulette was "Do you want it to jam?" My answer was a no. I put down the revolver, and surrendered myself to the police. If I knew then what I know now, I would not hesitate to pull the trigger again. What am I supposed to be living for? I'm incapable of most basic normal emotions and social functions.

My love is useless and worthless. Every day, I hear my friends and acquaintances bitterly complain about their choice of partners. Some plan to trade in the old relationship for a newer, younger piece of candy, and some break hearts for convenience; they think a girlfriend a long way away can't give them what they want out of a relationship. Damn them. I have no choice, and no options. Can't they see? I will die alone and lonely for reasons I'm just now completely grasping. I'm completely un lovable. I can give blind love and devotion, but those virtues seem to be meaningless.

Here's a list of scenarios I've found people prefer over me: an available moment with a best friend's lover, a drug addict returning to the area with only lies and a better smile than mine, a two-faced liar out for sex with as many conquests as possible, a liar active in all of the above scenarios swearing he's changed and wants another try. Still, with all those options, the most common choice of company over mine is still to not know me at all. I can't think of one friend who has always stuck with me and supported me in the fashion I do for all my friends, new or old.

In my high school days, I wanted to be a monk. The idea of quiet thinking and prayer appealed to me in the storm of my madness; the only obstacle was finding a church and order similar enough to my beliefs to take up the habit. It seems I've taken up a habit of sorts. I believe we'll call the order "The Knights of Void" That's a good name for a monastic society.

So here I sit, typing more irrelevancy into the internet. Few will read, less will understand, none will comment save to oppose this sentence. I took twice as many tranquilizers tonight as I usually would, so writing is becoming difficult. I'd say "see you later" lastly, but I think we all know that lie. The truth is that I don't want to live in here with him