…y life became an immutable haze, a rolling state of convoluted pictures, thoughts, conversations I wished I lost. My true compass shattered-and no direction seemed familiar. Loneliness took on a whole new definition. I was barely perfunctory in its most least of meanings. Often depicted as a dull robot with a heartbeat, which queerly at times became most erratic. I was on that yellow brick road turning blood red and no clue as to where Oz moved to. I never felt more out of place while simultaneously feeling out of body, but this was such a time. Being broken with a barely conscious motherboard that has an over-active mindset yet disconnected from all peripherals. New information was unattainable,and all internal files corrupted or at the very least irretrievable- at least by me.
My purpose in life and even to myself- voided. Akin some unexpected warranty that expired early because I simply ignored the fine print of care. I had no true sense of who I was. Life environment and an indoctrination by others was stirring my life’s pathway, my choices. Making other feel good became not only my motivation but my instinctual duty. I don’t mean to imply I should’ve been more self-absorbed but obviously more self-aware, of who- myself was, and what I wanted void of influence.I was misled by the advantageous to benefit the advantageous. Now I find myself steeping in carnage of foreign territory I never desired or expected to visit.The hellish version of precipitously falling to the bottom and no accidental trees growing out to grasp onto and end my decent. I seem at a loss to plot a plan of movement, simply reacting like a cog to everything already in the daily tick-tock’s of time running away. At this point, mermaids held a better chance of finding OZ for some storybook resolve.
Hurt and anger I felt interchanged like bipolar personalities that seems to have hidden behind a mask of self-doubt and unwarranted arrogance’s. Then to make matters worse,relished in its role like an addict hooked on guilt. Not the guilt of having done wrong but guilt of having become wronged. Often, I wanted to lash out at others,let them, no- make them feel my unrelenting pain in some malignant attempt of seeking comfort- even pity, just to feel anything that wasn’t me. Something inside myself seemed it more noble not to share such pain with others, not become some victimizer. Maybe my goal was to hurt them, so I could have a crowd to join;a tribe even if formed by my own actions. Foolishly one of my motives became to seek relief from reality in short term and unproductive manners. Getting drunk,taking irrational risk to get attention anything that distract realness and make me seem more phlegmatic. Perhaps, and I’m just spit-balling this; perhaps unconsciously I also feared life uncovered the real me, this new indifferent version that my upbringing taught me to hide, perhaps I was becoming…my father? Oh, how I gone to such great lengths since my childhood to avoid emulating him, superimposing myself onto his destructive image. My grey life just felt even colder, darker,less hopeful. I was the product of a long-standing war that has been passed down like some ungodly tradition. A war of corrupt unspokenness behind closed doors, treated like treasured secrets we were slowly inheriting unwittingly from self-absorbed rulers.
Perhaps I’ve come to that place in my life; a lull, where I can be openly honest rather than abundant with a plethora of clichés to spew out. I’ll refuse to accept the label of being a “survivor” as if was something of value to embrace after having been violated because in the end…all of us will be anything but perfected survivors.This “survivor-ship” in my mind is a term the cults like the law, medical and psychology ilks use to depersonalize us in an imaginary triage band-aid customarily made permanent for infirm people; like a wooden leg filed with their renewed emotions; to pretend openly to the world they are re-perfect again, akin new virgins or the more abused phrase: “reborn”. Only abusers would dare act like pushers and pimps by prattling such nonsense, and for no-less profit of some sorts. Everyone above the third grade knows better except those who buy into it to avoid reality or be perceived as “less-than”. The intellectual dishonesty that plagues our society is wrought with capitalist without a conscious. They became so damaged that they seek revenge through a monetary power at their fingertips like superheroes to right the wrongs of their past at the cost of mis-believing they have the right now to wrong others. I feel I’m caught within the eye of one of those life changing storms- here, and I’m uncertain what or who I’ll become or if I’ll even survive this storm, let alone want to be there, where-ever this current is seemingly dredging me along to- become. At least Dorothy had Toto.
Poet of the Light © 2018
Whispers of a poet's heart 