Blank slates are the most terrifying of them all. Find a something from the nothing? I shudder and retreat to comfort in things known and overdone. Humming in the invisible distance is the rock of my lowest depth, but until I bear it raw and tangible witness I may as well not hear a thing. Do you ever reminisce of your life, and suddenly experience a montage of the entire course of choices you've made, fearful and blissful, genuine and plastic? Sometimes I do, although it usually coincides with a healing dose of psychedelic substances.
My present in-the-moment selfhood is like eating a birthday cake. I yearn for a wholesome bite of contiguous lovely, yet the spongy, airy interior pales against the sickly and favored icing. Clearly, the meat, the core, the foundational necessity of my lifecake exceeds my fickle drizzling of circumstantial thirst. But I rarely peel away the icing and thank the cake itself -- the cakey bit that truly makes it cake.
Woe is me, I wail from an oasis of luxury, ease, and apparently cake.
I peer at that inner "-ness" to my existence once in a blue moon, twice if I'm distracted (most of this admittedly brief, pretentious, and uninformed journey I've spent in a trance of consuming desire and distinction). In these times I wish to roll carelessly down grassy hills and frolic and dissolve and weave. I speak with my friends as though this is my overriding state of mind and action.
Look, I'm a faker, and a pathological liar to friend and foe and self alike. Don't pity me for that, though this may feel like a desperate fishing pole in such murky water. Connect with me because you feel it too. "It", the awareness of your imperfect and haphazard performance against your brilliant essence -- not against the dance of dull influences and self-righteous pressures -- and the contrast represents your current location.
Sometimes I fret about how other people see me. Sometimes I stare at my reflection in the mirror for longer than I imagine I should. The greatest narcissistic devilry of my life has been the unctuous hawking of a persona I could never really embody. But I have seen glimmers of what happens when I shut the store down and quit selling this bullshit, and I want to get more off-hours, so to speak.
Jeez, do I tire of whining and self-doubt.
Maybe that's why I so readily turn to vice and pretense as a pass of time. Maybe I oughta pick up knitting, or talk to my mom more often. I absentmindedly hunt in the dark with a blunt knife, hoping to subdue a demonic ego that constantly wanders a step behind and in front of me. Aware that I'm surrounded and not confidant, I can only stay the course.
Blank slates are terrifying because the thought of erasure and renewal means a thorough assessment of what I have and haven't done. So I'm afraid of heights but I want to jump off the only cliff worth jumping.
Teach me and hug me and explore love with me. You who would do so are the brightest stars in the sky; the others are helplessly distant in a seemingly infinite space. I wonder how far I shine...there goes that dang demon again! I'd better hop off this loathsome soapbox so I can binge it away. It's never worked before, but hell, I'm shooting for the long con.
I'm lonely and bitter
unless there's a listener
Whelp,
Fuck
