A journal entry on feeling stagnant:
It is blasphemous for me to feel this way. It is blasphemy to nudge the world with my thoughts by putting them on paper. It is a miscarriage of ideals to almost be as good as I want to be. I feel as if I might as well have been born still. I feel nothing but friction, vibrating back and forth but never going anywhere. I feel like I was born to stillborn parents, never having learned anything from their mistakes. I feel as though the world owes me everything and nothing. I feel like I am an intrusion. A peculiar future death waiting to happen. I feel as though the only purpose I serve is to give the race less air to breathe, less space to live. I am a living cultivation of what it looks like to ungrow, to unthrive, to be still.
It’s quite often that I pluck the burning cigarette onto the curtain cloth, it’s a bad old habit. But you know what they say: “old habits die hard” or something of the sort. Pease, leave me a receipt after I check out and I’ll have your curtain replaced.
You know what… I have been on a bit of a bender as of late; in and out of motels and moving state to state. Sometimes I’m not sure if I am entrapped in a fight with time dimensions. I can almost see my past when I exhale the smokey hallucinations. I could feel the joints in my wrist, twist and bend and flex to the paperweight of my Marlboro. Continue reading
Blasphemy is for She(s) and only She(s)
My knees were forced open,
“what were you wearing that night? ”
I swallowed my voice.
I tried to stop it,
“but you gave the wrong signal,”
Silence. I gave in.