A long Haiku about moving on and by Haiku this is a stretch

The moleskin with the blue cover is lost; Relief is knowing that I don’t have to look at its contents anymore:

Mania gripped me

spun me

and as I grasped your hand

you didn’t care.


I dance again now and joke about the suffering I experienced, not out of anger but out of acknowledging that life is not static but rather a wavelength of dreams. I survived the nightmare world that surrounded me and now I’m searching not just for someone who is interesting or cute or funny but for the real thing. The real thing is not to be found but rather will occur so I am focusing on finding me. The last 6 years have been chaotic and that’s an understatement. I dated a myriad of people and don’t really know how or why. I’m tired of being an object or of using people as objects. I’ve been a really fragmented person and I have broken myself too many times. In the way my rapist held me at the beach only to walk me to my end, my eyes were closed as he entered in and out of me. I had so much anger I never expressed and I directed all that energy in frustration to the boy who often emotionally neglected me. There’s a connection to this romantic tragedy. I keep escaping one tragedy by clinging to people who can’t see me or who see me and run. Run girl run. I’m taking a seat and seeing life not for anyone to like me but for me. I spent too much of my energy becoming a concept for someone but then my little wall would crack and people abandoned me for another concept or else I abandoned them for some concept. I have been really hurt and likewise I have really hurt people. I’m not going to be responsible for all these bad feelings anymore. I’m abandoning this endless pursuit in the name of real love. Love is not made but found and you find it by being truly yourself.

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This is How you Lose Everything

wallace

This post is written post psychosis, with a heavy heart, full of guilt and nausea. As David Foster Wallace once said:  “There’s good self-consciousness, and then there’s toxic, paralyzing, raped-by-psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness.”


There is a buzz in my head: a sound bleating so loud I can’t ever sleep nor eat. [I] seem to have lost control of my impulses: run around listening to a whispering and looking upon strangers who I once thought were friends. The whispering is particularly ugly, in form it might be some faceless shadow; in reality it is probably a part of my brain that wants me dead.

  • Why must my brain continuously fling these horizontal variations at me? I stand. I sit. I punch the air quotes. I pray to some other form that the pain flies away. Metaphorical existence — The only form of courage I can muster to bring myself back some days. Hegel once said: “The spoken word unites the objectivity of the corporeal sign with the subjectivity of gesture, the articulation of the latter with the self-awareness of the former”. But what happens when there is a part of your brain disconnected from so called rationality; this battered part that only reacts by slowing down interactions and contiguously outlining words, crossing out literal meanings, and inserting interpretations unaligned with the text. I tell my students every day to provide textual evidence when their answers don’t match the text. Is this what we learn from reading and understanding text: how not to let psychosis take over your brain?
  • I lost someone who I thought and still think was my twin flame. Again there is no sense of reason in thinking that divinity exists. If divinity exists why did I lose everything again? The other day we were reading a story where a family is losing their home and the mother said it must be the intention of God for them to lose their safety. My student claimed that such a quote was a misunderstanding of the situation, the loan agency was to blame. I asked: does blaming God give the woman a sense of control.  [If God is in control, he may save them.] The church did always say: ” your deeds will save you.” Who will save me?
  • The fractions keep popping in my head. After my sister told me that my relationships always end due to my unhealthy interactions, I kept visualizing 8/6 and how it could also be 4/3 and how they both reduce to 1 and 1/3 and kept checking to see if 1 and 2/6 would truly reduce to 1 and 1/3. I’m not really sure what the fractions mean, I just spend so much time solving them.
  • Party on the L train; except the L train is always late or stuffed with people, or else it gets stuck in the tunnel or leaves you right by where you and your twin flame went to the street fair, seeing the state of hipsters, you both ran. You know that the relationship ending is not entirely your fault. And you know that at least September is over and with it that part of your brain that wants to kill you is finally dormant. You make a home out of nothing and start to sleep again.

 

Hope is that thing with feathers. And although you lost it all, you didn’t lose your hope.

 

Insignificance

I ripped the candy wrapper,

Did you hear the news?

I ripped the candy wrapper.

I do not remember ripping it,

it must have happened beyond my consciousness

but I ripped it.

I broke it, I tore it, I killed it.

In some way parallel to how I handle relationships.

I ruin, and wreck, and never even intend to or notice.

So then I become apathetic to it, I don’t even feel sadness.

I blame it on:

the season,

My drinking,

my sadness,

and I find a new tv show,

or another person to distract me.

Because in reality I am sad,

I feel remorse and yet did I truly ruin it,

or did they just leave?

I convince myself that it is the latter, that way I did nothing,

I can’t fix it, and it is insignificant.

I stare instead at some image

and forget.

 

 

 

Observations in my travels: Medellin Colombia

For what cannot be bought, there is feeling

at times the feeling of leaving the body

to touch the vulnerable fragment of iridescence

At times the feeling of incompetent

frustration,

a longing for the person

who will leave the body and meet the soul

in a dance of joy in suffering.

The soul rips apart and the body screams

the face reacts by red patches of uglyness

as the vesicles release fluid in the form

of floating perspiration.

I touched the urine on her skin

but only the coins felt her longing.

I cannot recall the face but I remember

the need , a need for the coin,

the gesture of the cross.

The priest, he said

that we are pilgrims, bodies made of dust,

the journey is centered towards…

the beans, the sustenance of flatulence.

the error grave, as I gazed at the artform and forgot to see

the hidden people that color the environment

with the reality of the result of self gain and free market,

I gave a coin, the priest a nice word, but the grass gave nothing,

it could not give beans,

the beans belonged to a market of some form,

which turned every touch into a debt,

the grave , a cost,

the birth, a cost,

the diploma, a cost,

the lips releasing a heavy smell

the rotting of the wood,

the explosion of the candle

which refuses to light without whim.

the lord will only listen by the donation,

a donation to light the candle,

a small remnant, a reminder of the debt

that christ left.

debt is but submission towards a power,

she released rain, sitting on the side of the street

drinking Coca Cola

a woman of no means, with the coin,

the power of the cross

which portrays the debt of one person towards another,

a debt which immediately fades, once the coin is released,

the kiss of life forgotten, the dance a facade,

no home for he who only has a coin.