Standing in the kitchen today I noticed a folder on the the kitchen counter which contained information on my brother. It took me a long time to gain the confidence to look at them but when I did I realized that he also had spent time in my room before he left. The days just move past without me even knowing it. I try to feel strong but I can't get past it. I tried many times to find a place in myself from which to move. You've told yourself for years that there was something that could be created and made but the same borders re-emerge. The thing is, what you have constructed, what you see and taste is a fantasy. You can't focus but you let yourself off the hook out of fear. You clutch onto fragments, images and past experiences piecing yourself together but every day you collapse again trying desperately to maintain your beaten and crippled facade. You will be beaten. Your sense of self will be crushed under the weight and movement of others. Your spirit dies every day and the strength in you which you love gnaws and burrows into you like a tape worm. You are a parasite. A thousand plateaus. When things fall apart you convince yourself to be your own friend because you think there's something there - in you, something that one day you'll make manifest. You know somewhere in your most candid self that you are flat – that you have nothing accept a hollow field with aesthetic nets which allow you to catch and accumulate the illusion of meaning. You hold onto the future. The meaning which you nurse carefully emerging from what seems to be underground and a deeper sense of self is simply a collage of external stimuli and influence. Everyone you love is connected perversely to your sense of self in your endless cycle of repetition which infects all life with stasis. Your meaning is simply a blog of meaningless accumulation and dead ends. You even know this and find that your very acknowledgement of superficialities proves a certain sincerity and depth but you eventually become bored with your own habitual roads of thought. When you create it is simply surviving with this truth. You actually know the truth in your periphery most of the time. You've even looked right at it dead on but you continue to survive, out of boredom, out of cowardice. And then again, you think that your acknowledging this somehow means that your in touch with a truth that lies within the more truthful sphere of emptiness. This story of your long defeat is in and of itself a coping mechanism disguised as a grandiose vision in relation to your fake and miserable reality. You find depth in what is ultimately a romanticization of your own perversity which is brought on by your fundamental inability to grasp happiness which you perceive quite strangely as boundless. In truth all supposedly new perspectives as brought on by external stimuli which seem to give you a sense of renewed spirit are made up out of the constrictions with which make up your denial.
There's always more out in the world when your distracted. The world evolves and opens itself through your eyes. You've felt happy for this world outside of yours – a place that you've tried to find inside. Months lengthen into years. Realize what this is. What you can't seem to figure out. The things that you love most – that you cherish, those things that seem to emanate from what is you - that allow you to keep moving. Why do you continue to work, to create and live when you are simply treading a path so deep outside what it is you thought you were. The person you want to be is a manifestation of your stabbing jealousy and weakness. You bury yourself under the weight of your own boredom and sexual malaise. You are too weak to abandon yourself like your lovers always will and you want to cry. You want to cry because you remain, holding on when no one is around to care. All you have is longing. Life has deadened you. You have found and established nothing. You hold on in desperation to a belief in your own sexuality and awakening that has never gone anywhere over the years. You have memories of your lovers who were somehow yours in the ignorant sunlight of a fading day. That they once created space in your mind with which you established your own depth fractions off into burning pain which cuts through you so hard your insides liquify and boil. You pathetic fuck – wasting away within your own hot vapor while your parents support you and love you and think you are the world. Your myth's crutch breaking in heat. It will never be the same. You hold onto nothing but a lie which frozen in time rots your mind through the vapid screen of the passing hours.
Being buried alive or set on fire as your parents are held captive and forced to watch the spades cut into the dirt - crying for it to stop, your flesh melting while in your torment you barely make out the tears of your mothers absolute helplessness, pleading to god for your quick death. Wishing for your consciousness to stop, or that somehow you might suffocate quickly in your coffin instead of continuing to think for hours and days knowing that your slithering in your own feces and vomit. Suffering the most cruel death, alone - without her. Losing consciousness, dreaming of your childhood and your lost loves and your parents. Waking up from the morning light in your bedroom to the darkness again and your sobs while you waste away in the earth, away from all things.
They were disappointed in you. Your mother cries because she lives through you and is slowly dying as you are beaten and swept out into the strong tide.
On the net. You were here five years ago, in this place on your bed. So much has changed but you continue to relive the past. The borders of each second collapse as you rise out of it. Your fingers punch the keys and your bored and empty. Off across the sea the image of your love collapses and your fingers still drum down on the keys dreaming of sex. But your here again revolving back while others widen their paths – stepping out into the world. The blinds begin to glow and you get up off the mattress, out the door and into the cold air. The platform is crowded and you wait. Traveling downtown every morning with clubs in mind and distant groping young hands, and muscled chests. You see the shape of their sharp arched eyebrows and their flushed complexion outside of you, with friends dancing down sidewalks and abandoning clothes against the tide of the open ocean. You somehow think that these thoughts will guard you, will keep your love close and nurtured by your distant spirit, holding them to your profound love. But the echo does not reach them and you face silence - and in it - their skin and their legs, their mischievous cloudy gaze and longings, hopes, fears and desire for excitement caressed by other hands and lips and a cock penetrating in the distant echo of trance and lights your love. And you weep like a lonely and pathetic coward while your dreams dissolve and the ground still holds their tone from yesterday and the walls here remain, receiving the sun.