Walk Him Along… Carry Him To His Burial Ground….

I don’t even know where to start. 

I guess at the beginning before my own tries at artistic tirades at this horrendous and erroneous event that I decided to bury my head into. 

What rot this all is. What insanity…. What a head rush I am going into and currently witnessing. It doesn’t even feel like I am even here. It’s as if I am simply not experiencing any of what I am currently doing, being swiftly put into another group of people without so much of a notion of their names or faces before I arrived at this place. 

I decided to go to a farm for three months. Yep, I am living off the land and working in exchange for knowledge. I lost my job back in May, my ex back in March…. I hadn’t work or romantic prospect back in my last residency. I had no hope. I had nothing to look forward to. There was nothing I could look at my calendar and feel something more than anxiety in my own future. How could I learn to respect myself if I continued this entire chain of misdirection and inaction at my life? There was no simple answer to this, nor would one ever come. So I sent myself to a farm in the middle of almost nowhere in hopes of achieving something of a better self. Maybe being away from the city, in another state, away from anyone who I convinced that I was worthy of love in some form…. I would be free from this mask that I constantly glued to my face. It was cracking and it was peeling but at least I had something I could rely on. 

Now I have nothing but the shattered pieces of some idol that I had worshipped in a previous life. My previous life. The one I lived when I was in Texas. 

How could I have been so stupid? How Could I have thought that this was a clever idea to get me to be open around others that I never knew and learn something else about the job I will be going into next. I would have to meet new people — the most specific type of hell you could put me in. I am a glutton for punishment, aren’t I? I hate meeting others because there’s this all or nothing statement that I believe: people will never accept me. I am truly alone and isolated in my own life and the people that I take within my own life don’t even know what I am. How could they when I lie to them about everything?

To these new people, I had the chance at an empty slate. I had the chance to not lie, to not make a dancing rejection and a projection of their own prejudices. Why must I choose to always serve the road of the clown only no one is laughing? No one is laughing here…. My words fall flat without a sound and without any sort of heed. How can I even heed my own words when I don’t believe in half of the things I say?  

Laughter was the one thing I thought I could do. It was my purpose: to bring laughter. To bring something of a light to those who are held in the darkness. But what I never realized was how far into this own darkness that I am…. There is barely a light here, and the torches I had here no longer work. They have since dried from the quick evaporation that this fuel promises. It’s not oil I wick my own lights with. It is nothing but simple gasoline, this hydrophobic mess that people worship for their own lights — their own short lived, ill respected lives. What I never thought possible was that I would be the one left in darkness without another soul knowing where I am when I thought I lifted others out of theirs. 

I can’t even raise myself from my own inherent darkness. What the hell made me think that I was somehow responsible for the lifting of others? Who am I to consider that maybe I had some sort of effect on the people I meet? How foolish was I was to assume anything of the sort? 

And I have simply been beating myself senseless all day. Every chance I get today has been especially hard to keep my own rabid dogs at bay. Normally I am pretty good at keeping them within their own cages. I can keep them calm and at peace with the rest of me. But today, it wore me down to a point where I am desperately seeking some sort of human contact to let me know that I have not become my own inner demons, that somehow I still retain some semblance of a human…. that I haven’t become what I fear most.  

Yet that fear stems deep within the brambles of my own heart. It bleeds my innards and brings a blight in my soul that I feel only a fire could kill. Only something drastic could end any of this. 

Dear readers, this is likely more difficult than my time with Ayahuasca. 

There is not a light soon to appear at the end of this tunnel. All I have is the small weak lantern that I have traversed with through these spindly crypts where spiders are my only friends when I want none of their company. I know their creativity. I respect their role in nature. But I don’t want them as friends. I can’t give a reason why. Perhaps prejudice. Perhaps just my own menagerie of horrors makes a perverted stage craft of some Shakespearean production when really it is nothing more than a piece of script torn from the angst ridden teenager drunk on their own “inspiration”. My, what a fine craft, what a fine painting I have made of my own life… 

::angrily tosses painting on the floor and sets the damn thing on fire:: 

Look now at the art I have constructed. Every single memory made from this place of deep seated insecurity burns with it. Even this current one that destroys every opportunity I have. Every inch that feeds my psyche on the corn grown on the river Styx is another moment I would rather die than carry on like this. I no longer wish to have this poison so deep within my veins fed by the brambles that wire shut my own heart as if this secret vault is supposed to serve a purpose. How INANE every bit of this practice is. How ASININE EVERY SINGLE PART, EVERY SINGLE THING I DO, HOW STUPID IS ALL OF THIS. To what end do I suffer? To what end do I keep up this delusion that I play the victim in this twisted passion play where I am my own martyr? How does that make sense? 

I take pieces and run with them expecting some sort of response… What it gets me is nothing else but a repose that I wish would be gentle. What I wish is that these days would ease themselves and reveal at …. but then again, when have I listened to this approach from anyone or anything. 

Why do I act as though I have some sort of bearing on what any of these people think of me. I have none at all here. Why am I remotely thinking I have some sort of power that has some sort of influence that means something here. I am now a peasant that fell from a seraphic status where now these wings mean nothing. I am overcome with grief… stricken with mal intent, taken by a fall from grace… where I don’t know if I’ll return… but I know the odds are not in my favor. 

Where is my place, where is my spot? Where am I to find a place here? Where am I to find peace? 

Where can I find peace in my own living hell? 

I’m not sure if there’s an answer to that. I know I have to create my own light, love comes from within, bla bla bla new age bullshit. What am I to believe if I don’t know if I can ever rise again? I feel death has a house within me, but I don’t feel the need to kick him out. He is much misunderstood like me…. I feel an equal housemate in this Death that resides within me. In a way, I understand him. He seems to be my only friend right now, knowing how it is to be among others that don’t quite get it, that don’t understand the isolation we put ourselves into. How can they? Their acceptance is broad and within. Ours… is something different. Unseen and intangible. Extended, maybe perhaps profound. Maybe yours is something different, Death. Like a different room in a house unless we knew each other well — in maybe a different sense of the phrase. But how are we to know. How are any of us to know? 

How can any of us? How even can I when I look into the darkness and see nothing? How can I know myself when I see nothing at all? 


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