Viva Emptiness

I still have all this energy.  How do I still have so much restlessness when I’ve barely slept in two weeks?  It’s insane.

And there’s only so much I can do at 10 pm.  I’ve organized and re-organized my room, hung pictures and sentimentals on my walls… went through all my books, thought about reading one, and then quickly dismissed that idea.  I don’t think I can sit still for that long.  Games are getting boring.  Movies are getting boring.  Anime is getting boring.

The only thing I’ve found calmness in is eating, playing guitar, and writing.  And trying to contact all of the people that I’ve alienated over the years… just out of desperation to talk to –anyone-.  Anyone at all….

Anyone?

Please?

Talk to me.

Relate to me in some way.

I need it.

Apologies; the frame is fried.

I am such a horrible person.  In this new solitude, without blinders or mufflers or anything, I started reading through my old notebooks.

One of them was dedicated to the time I spent in Missouri.

I can still feel those emotions, and their resurging in me as I take in the pages is so discomforting.  How do I convince myself to torture and eradicate everything?  How do I keep from destroying myself completely?

I haven’t felt this kind of restlessness since I was a teenager.  It’s been that long.  But, anti-depressants are death.  Anxiolytics are death.  Opiates are not just death, but suicide.

All I can do every day is ignore the churning swirl in the seat of my stomach.  The agitation that I sublimate every hour of every day.  I hope to God that it disappears.

I am so afraid of trying to become a normal sheep, because I know that I can’t.  I am afraid of being able to find a job, because I feel like I never will.  I am terrified of fucking this whole trip up, of relying on my mother and brother for money until they get sick of me.  But, this is all just the withdrawal-induced depression talking… isn’t it?

I also have never felt so alone.  I have no one to talk to, and while my roommate is my best friend, I don’t like to relate to people in that deeper way, unless I’m doing a lot of drugs.  Maybe back when I was 23, I would have opened up to him.

But I’m 28.  I have no job, no income… a really bad case of The Itch, and a vague determination to get through withdrawals so that I can live my life sober.  I can’t even think of what it would be like to try to relate to people here, or anywhere… because I know that there is always a 99% chance that they are the kinds of people that will just annoy me, or will never become the kind of people I can truly relate to.  That’s just the way it is.

My solitude has never felt this encompassing.  This strangling.

From a late summer, years ago:

My emptiness is the bow that bowed
under salted air and ocean blows
that fell ceaselessly until I was thrown.

I have empathy and the love in stone:
Timeless, instanced, windflown;
the feeling that I am monotone…
the feeling of a stretching undertow.

With the green and white, the colored Spring
flowing, pouring into my something,
sacred triangles are on false legs,
while I still want to be great,
like the undulating sea;
the same feeling that once drowned me.

I don’t have that phantom-shape,
the nonexistent hole of wasted space:
The hunter who cannot provide;
the author with only a weak reply.
It is no ghost in me;
rather, organic and encompassing…
And still, still I try,
as the horde of weights divide
and lacerate our endless shine.

 

--

 

For every cornerstone, a scratch;
each loophole, a catch;
routes to feel the crash.
I wonder how this all makes sense
when my soul, the floating wanderer,
the minstrel catches his breath,
stares in wonder of the path
and is afraid to step ahead.
”You feel this too, I know”,
I’d shout from my transparent banner,
my warcry, futile, dry.
At least it is to me, for I am nothing
if not determined, yet I have no way to breathe
because I have a lump inside of me.
I feel it is all a dead end’s growing seed.

What can I do for you?
What can I really do for you?
When could this ever be alight,
ablaze, except through fantasy?

 

--

 

The feathers in my eyes were just knives, turned inward….

--
The itch
The urge

Monochrome
symbol on the surface
Reduced illumination
Chemical inheritance

The lies
The fever
=

2000 and Gone…

It feels like It’s been years since I accessed my real emotions.  I’m pretty sure it has been.

Everything is beginning to flood back in.  The grief; the loss; the need; the destruction; the emptiness.

But, whereas before I would sulk and sink into it, I will not do that ever again.  I will never become that low unless I let myself.  Even if I have to kill off my own memories.  Because I have to, to survive.

Emily is never returning.  Brittany isn’t either.  Linnea is almost gone; I’m sure of that.  I will probably never see or speak to my father ever again.  I will probably never see most of the people I’ve known throughout my life ever again.  I want it that way.  I need to leave them all behind, to move forward.

I have been sleeping in a death so absolute that I forgot I –was- asleep.  And now, I’m beginning to awaken.  And it’s so painful.  But, this sacrifice will forever be a part of me, just like all those times when fate murdered the parts of me.  Every single one of them.

But Humans are like that.  We die, and we live again.  No one else can resurrect like I can, because I don’t believe that anyone else has died like me and wasn’t snuffed out completely.

 

I remember walking around on campus, listening to music so loudly that it drowned out the blaring sensation of being alone in a crowd.  I remember trying to grasp at a burning rope, to somehow get her back to me.  I remember sitting in my car on the side of the road in the middle of the night, bearing my heart to someone that never cared about me.  I remember watching the New Years’ celebration in a hospital room.  I remember holding the blade to my wrist, and being afraid.  I remember pumping my veins to bursting, and being afraid.  I remember being a ghost, and I remember being dead.  I remember all those ancient pains.  I always will.

But, I will move forward; alone.  And I want it to be that way.  Because none of them ever really cared about me.  I just wanted them to.  But something’s different, now; I care about myself.

I toss and turn, yeah…

I’m nearing my second week of withdrawals, horrible opiate withdrawals.  The worst imaginable.  Suboxone withdrawals.

I never realized my state of mind until I stopped, though.  I’m glad I did, even though the last week of my life has been utter hell.  Sweating, cramps, restlessness, insomnia, fever, lethargy… I’ve slept no more than 2-3 hours a night for the past week straight.  It’s ridiculous.

I’m 1,500 miles away from home, in a low-rent apartment, and all I have is $7.00.  My brother won’t come through for me, as much as he says he “will”.  I always thought people would help support me when I needed it.  I guess I was mostly wrong.  At least I have a roommate who is also in the same state of being….