This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

Clocks and that.

I can’t help but feel that time is an assault on my functions, on my ability to deal with situations. Instead of me learning and progressing and advancing my ability to survive and interact it seems to be chipping away at my sensibilities, leaving chips and notches and knee jerk emotional reactions that have a habit of physically manifesting themselves given sufficient intensity.

If I am nothing more than a collections of reactions that normalize themselves and change according to the tides of culture, then why is it a negative progression formed not out of the opening up of new options of new opportunities, but of the closing off of my senses and the denunciation of my internal desires. I’m nothing but a tight knot getting tighter and friction burning myself apart.

I try to placate the threads with pretty but flawed faces onto whom I project some romantic function, some poetic logic for love these interactions last a few weeks or days before I tire of my own pretence and resentment creeps into my tone and I patronise them from my place of arrogance. And I feel pity in a way that makes me feel guilty, makes me aware of how arrogant I am of how I’ve very rarely hated but often felt embarrassed, disgusted or overwhelmed by how sickening and low the human form can be, and in this I recognise the roots of fascistic thought buried deep underneath a left wing liberal logic a system of control to tame the beast of violent gut reaction from tearing me apart from caring, apart from trying to better anyone’s lot but my own.

And it is the dynamic that is weathered by time, eroded by events the sediments of liberal sentimentality slowed peeled away the rotten core of selfish arrogance creeping into the lights, its urges breaking through the gaps and the momentary lapses draw a new picture on my face one that makes them ask,

‘whats going on inside?’

Why am I changing? As if I should be still an eternal self I should still be hopeful with a childs glee. Should still be as excited by chasing the waft of cunt, that I now know can only lead to another desperate search that comes up empty handed yet find myself imprisoned in someone elses net, my own threads even more tightly knotted and the pull of someone’s else’s threads with their own frustrated tempo doing nothing but breaking through my threads and causing little puffs of smoke to follow me around like dark clouds raining emotional complexity on the still mundane and every day.

Why should I ask at all? And not just take what is left so open and empty? Not bend the will I know will flex, not merely ride the wave of speculation indulge the fear and project myself a new illusion with the incantations I know so well. Not stop hampering my own want for others need? Sometimes I find it hard to tell what I care about, what I feel? What is more than the barks of a trained dog?

I must accept there Is a jump of logic. A gap of understanding between me and others, for if I am right about anything then it is that others are wrong. If they are wrong then someone, some omnipotent class a level above me must see my flaws? My mistakes and misinterpretations, the lazy overcomplicated proofs I use to guide my actions, and which I manage to pass off as solid alibis in the face of bad questions, and blind eyes.

They must see the way I over elaborate fumbling until it becomes almost an art, the way I side step all the emotional questions so charged from the time they’ve been unanswered. The way I wrap myself in a cloud verbs and gesture wildly with bottles and try to paint my life in ink.

I find my own flaws and spread them thin over the streets I walk through, to try and muddy them under well rehearsed narratives that function like adverts for my own, until the subtle beating of my heart is another truth to be uncovered and I feel gaudy under the weight all the things I feel, and so I tell them want they want to hear, better than they knew and all I feel is pity as I spit onto their eyes.

1 comment:

  1. seriously joe, you are of a minute group of people, of those i know personally, whose writing i would actually read for pleasure, chosing with my own time to do so.

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