We find emotion in the smallest of things. It's not always in a person or a thing. Sometimes we find emotion in the weapon against our skin, cutting open the flesh that surrounds us. Seeing the blood and feeling that pain somehow makes us feel alive in a way a person cannot. We live in a world full of hate and wonder why there is so much of it. We all fall down, but we don't always stand up the same way as others. Sometimes we get up, grabbing hold of a blade. And sometimes we get up by shattering a plate, throwing good away. And sometimes we stand up by silencing our own voices. Standing up isn't always black and white. Standing up is a collage of solutions, that's different for everyone.
I've been crumpled up in this armchair for hours. The thick fog that inhabits my psyche has rendered time a forgotten concept. The long winter night has reached it's darkness out in to the day, allowing the morning to creep in unnoticed. I've been staring at my hands for hours. They look strong and wretched yet delicate. I recollect the many tasks they've completed before my eyes without a shred of the admiration I possess for them in this moment. The soft socked footsteps of my younger twin siblings grab my attention as they rush their infant waddles down the hallway towards my parents bedroom. Since I now reside in my early twenties, my gift haul has been reduced to one or two and now my stocking see's out the festive period wrestling with tinsel scraps in the attic. This gives me ten to fifteen minutes before the boys barge in through my bedroom door and shake me awake to join them for the youthful magic of christmas. I'm snapped from my haze and an urgency to avoid jonsing though a couple of hours of bleated excitement encourages me to roll myself a spliff. I pluck a skin from the pack and urge it flat on my desk. I spiral a small roach foundation from a scrap of card. The work of my fingers impresses me more than usual. I recount memories of my first efforts into the venture. The baggy results, the restrained frustration of my friend as I shook him awake to assist. I pluck a small amount of tobacco and measure it economically onto the paper. My fingertips peck at the cushioned stickiness inside a baggie of shredded bud. I scatter it evenly throughout my smoke and it's leafy scents billow into my face. With compassionate authority my hands instruct the ingredients towards what they become. I place the slim roach between my lips then stir a flame around at the fat end until the cherry ripens. The narrow, condensed jet of smoke clouds my mouth. My lips part and the smog threatens to escape before the steel leash of my lungs tug it back, choking, to the mercy of my consumption.
ok. i know where my energy is now. just gotta look a picture of wynnie. and im on fire. its there. the ice in her eyes is my energy. the ice in her attidude to me. it is the biggest fucking offense i can think of. i need to challenge this energy like i did back with stefanie. and it fucking worked. when i looked back at how much better i was than her in my recent highs. i mean it would be rediculous. i was cool COOL> fucking grand compaered to her. we are comparing. now i lmpw i should not turn this shit against. myself. but this is where my fight lies in my anger . this is wer the fuel is. cna yo feel it yet/ I can. fuck. its like having 70 coffees . jet fuel. 1000 octane. boom boom pow. so what now? antidepressants? perhaps. borderline? perhaps. but fuck it. i got my plan now. i m gonna hustle like a fucker. i will j8ust do what ihas worked for me beofre. be icecold and kill. entilted. when i shot down lydia that was a show of my past fucking cold. my kiiller. that her shit. dann kill her. wynnie style. i CAN kill. so i can survive. i want to be zen and loving and all of thqt. but the truth is. this is not where the force lies. the force lies in the desire, the LONGING for somethign specific.
oh man what a day this was. and what a short night. on as little as 3 hours sleep. and then another one. what can you do but laugh at it. i went down to the big buildigns by the docks for the job intwerview in 1984. and it went ok. i suppose. the sour taste of humilation remains. what a machine, this canary wharf. what a bloody dystopia. it was the fake smile that was telling the whole story, the fake smile on the recruiters face. how patronising she was. thinking she was smart, but she was too ugly to make it far in this sexist corporate world. she should have been a vet instead i suppose. anyways, it is not like she took it out on anyone. not yet. this was her sales mission. but she had the eyes and the gestures of an ice cold killer. the whole thing was a bit auschwitz. in its attempt to hide what was really going on: it was a bloody sweatshop. you will not stop working there. you are not allowed to put the phone down, not allowed to stop writing emails. the job is very very repetitive and micromanaged and i know already that it is something i will most likely hate. i speak in future tense like i already have the job. still a good feeling remains and i dont konw what to call it for i dont know what it really is. all this lack of sleep has given me a tiredness that overrides everything else. i think what it really is is the feeling of hope. the vision of light. i can do this. there are challenges. i am afraid to speak in front of groups of strangers. but i can do it. i will learn. i will be free. and i can succeed. so i will.
So I am putting my thoughts onto the leave and let them be taken away by the gentle stream of clear water, slowly running over the stony bed of the small river. It is everything I put on there. All the negativity, in all its forms and shapes, small and large. And what is left. Is peace and presence and calamity of mind. So far the theory. And in reality? In reality some things are troubling us. And they are serious. You know they are not just a little gram of material on a leave. They are like a huge stone place onto a feeble little leave and it doesn't float, it bloody drowns and stays put and blocks the path for the other leaves. Well. That is the way it seems. But really it is not like that at all. We are just putting the thoughts on there, not the situations , the thoughts ABOUT these situation. and they are far wrose. its the fear of the fear that kills people. it will never be as bad. coehlo wrote about that. the monsters that you are so afraid of you will never encounter if you don't put them there yourself. the only place they exist in is the mind. and thats nothing. they easily fit on to the leave, we can make them small or big. we don't have to feed them. we can just ignore them and they will die in their own time. true story.