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15 April 2017 @ 02:54 pm
i was not ready for the fall  
the eye, the staring eye. the staring eye of the wounded. of the injured. of the neglected, washed out and bleached white and abandoned in a place where only the dead belong. are we the dead? am i the dead? i mean: am i dead to you? every sword's brutal intention. every blade cutting through. the eye is open, the eye stares. the eye stares, what does it see?

we arrive at the threshold of those things about ourselves that scatter unacknowledged through our fields of perception: that which we see or hear or feel, that scent that just catches the edges of our breath, that taste that sours the very back the tongue. do we let the pain in? do we welcome it into our stronghold? do we let pain become part of that which sustains us? or are we afraid of it? embarrassed by it? guilty and ashamed? do we believe not letting the pain in makes us better, makes us stronger, makes us more of an asset to the people we care about?

because a person who is lying to the people they care about:

a person who is lying to themselves:

these people are not assets as much as they are challenges. in order to tend to the wound it must be acknowledged. in order to acknowledge the wound, it must be revealed that a wounding incident occurred. and i struggle to bring it into form. i struggle to give it a name. i struggle to navigate in a world where people i love have hurt me and i have hurt people i love:

but that's the thing of it. how do i name this? how do i introduce this wounding matter to a world that rewards ignorant optimism with decadent spoils, with easy answers, with lots of friends and material resources? how do i introduce this wounding matter to a world that punishes insightful pessimism with poverty, neglect, and facebook blocks? with friends who view you as a chore? how can you be who you need to be when everyone around you has been programmed to invalidate and punish the less desirable qualities of that free-thinking authenticity we all claim to at least admire, but who can live like that?

seriously: who can live like that? what am i doing wrong? my only close friend in good standing from before i turned twenty, dead at his own hand. dreams of people i've loved since the first instance of eye contact injuring themselves intentionally, ending themselves intentionally. yet another musician who helped us come out the other side of the volleyball unit alive, dead, and so young! and so terribly! i'd say it's the rapture. i'd say it wasn't a coincidence that it was paul who first showed me that film, the woman in her endless expanse of nothing, forced to choose between ignorant optimism by denying everything she's suffered for and that insightful pessimism that made her overall living experience meaningful, resonant, worthy of documentation.

because that's the story. that's what makes good writing. that's what makes people want to read: pain. knowing that you're out there. knowing that you've been there. knowing that we aren't so alone. the story is pain. pain is the story: the creative irritant, the way things get done. the eye, the staring eye. the stories we place around what is absent, what is broken, what has led us astray. astray in a weird territory, where the things we look at are not always the things that we see. where is your pain, right now? where is the pain telling you to go?


 
 
mood: until further notice
music: igneous flame/disturbed earth - v