Thursday, October 21, 2004

Nothing could really get more random than this. Another night of nothing but the same crap as the previous night.

I push my fingers into my eyes…
Clawing them out to blind myself. The dream continues on. Never to end as long as I am willing to suffer it. Simple things that edge their way into my mind. Covering topics like shoes to sandals. A whole dissection on my car pondering the individual parts waiting to break on me. Slowly each piece readies itself to turn my machine of motion into a machine of fire. Death on wheels rolling along the highway burning the skin off its driver while burning off its paint. Leaving a slight acidic smell behind me. Clenching my mouth on the exhaust hoping to breath in life. Life from the machine what more will the future hold? Sweet delicious carbon monoxide enough for me to share but I hold it all inside knowing others wont appreciate it like I do. So I drive along with full knowledge of the disaster waiting to happen. I know soon my fuel injection line will split open and spray the inside of the engine compartment with gas. Then a spark from the electrical system as I turn up my stereo to block out the voices in my head. Soon an explosion will be heard but confused with a thump of the bass. Smoke billowing out the side of the car I keep driving knowing this will be the last time I will drive this machine. This will be the last time I am in control. As soon as I stop I will lose control and I will lose my car. I will lose my mind along with the things I love. The things that I hate will consume me while I struggle to maintain the sense of loss because I wont miss the things I don’t remember about.
So I push my fingers into my eyes….
…and dream the dream given to me by another. Rock music pounding my eardrums while I sleep. The dreams breathed into my mind by a sold out singer. Someone seeking to make a few more dollars had figured out how to combine the words thread with red. Songs that begin with “Let it go” filling the air with waves of bass and weird sounds from a keyboard. Drowning in an acoustic spiral of filth hoping to find something clean to latch onto. This wave, this struggle, this night, this dream pulling me under slowly. The more I struggle the slower I am pulled under but I know there is no way out. Blackness consumes me and I fear for my soul.
The sudden break given by a voice of clarity. A loud voice speaking the words that free me, ‘Fuck your prefect. Your reflection.’ The struggle to be who I am not suddenly ceased for the moment while my mind comprehends the idea of only being myself. The brief moment before the voices in my head proclaim I am nothing at all so copying something else is the only way that I can define the I in my existence. Still suffering the delusions that I will make a difference. The bass line on a song pulls me back into lethargy and the audio vortex latches onto me again as a multitude of voices proclaim themselves as a way to incivility. I don’t want to breath anymore. I don’t want to see anymore. I don’t want to suffer anymore. Most of all I do not want to feel anymore. None of the songs have the answer to total numbness interrupted by moments of pain brought on by hatred. Nor do they have the answer for moments wasted waiting for a asteroid to wipe out humanity from the world. Still salvaging my identity from the twister is the single phrase, ‘Fuck your perfection!’ The lonely words spoken out in anger and passion freeing me from the claws of demons seeking to doom me to mediocrity. There are no excuses for my weakness. Nor is there any examples of people like me succeeding. There are books filled with those who failed. Those who were reduced to a shadow of their former self from drugs. Those who attempted to free themselves but failed either by their own fault or something walking in. Everyday something new hits me and chills me. The cold wind blowing through my heart echo’s and rattles my ears. There are no excuses to continue. The only point is to suffer more and hope that in the end it will be worth something more.

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