"This Little Girl
She grew up and moved away and she
She lived her life full of risk and full of play and she
She lived her life, with so much to say, and
Her flowers they grow more beautiful everyday"
- Little Red, Kate Nash
Sitting here wondering.
If I try so hard to create beauty in my world, where it doesn't exist with words, flowers, love, lyrics, is it strange that sometimes I just want to sit back and bask in ugliness. Sometimes something ugly is just so poignant, just so perfectly imperfect and uneven, just such a contrast to everthing else forced into symmetry. Just something without the pressure of beauty, to conform to standards, the crushing of the everyday. Something you can hold in your hand, and love for being repulsive. For being so unashamed and unabashed in its uncompromising ugliness . For just being, not trying to hide, not trying to be beautiful, and not trying to make any apologizes.
What kind of punishment is slavery for a submissive?
What kind of punishment is torture to a masochist?
If you submit enough, bring yourself far enough down, can anyone really touch you? If you reach rock bottom, if you survive the fall, are you safe?
Can anyone really ever hurt you again?
Are we all Sadists and Masochists deep down, destroying each other for our twisted kinks? Is that our real aim?
Is trying to live an ordianary life, all the thing we're supposed to do, the checklist of being: fall in love, get married, get a jog, have kids, is this a submission to being average? Is this settling?
After you crash from your childhood highs, and realize that all your life, your parents lied to you, dreams don't come true, anything isn't possible Santa Claus isn't real.When you realize you won't be a movie star, won't be a rock star, an astronaut or superman, do you give up all hope of adventure? Of being somebosy, of being loved, being significant?
Can you ever be happy being? Can you ever feel happy, or will kids become your shackles, white picket fences your jail, and a brick house in the suburbs, your tomb. Nails in your coffin, nails through your heart.
But where do you go when there's no where else to turn, but in? Do you disappear? Fade to nothingness. Can you ever be recalled back to life?
If you threw a feather, a coffee pot and me out a window, who would fall faster?
Am I anything to anyone? Am I anything at all? Am I an allusion, a girl made of air? I've almost disappeared before, tried to fade to nothing, claw my way out of my skin.
A shell, a last veil hiding my true self, shrouding my nakedness.
And I wonder what hides underneath? If I just sit back and let myself go free, the chips fall where they may. If I'm undressed of my skin, scarred to reveal my true face, will I find true ugliness to repulse even my drive. Or will I find sad beauty in a meaningless, pitiful self destruction.
Or will I just rant, bogged down by responsiblities, expectations, and my own feined scraps of modesty and a penchant for adjectives and purgery.
Will I destroy myself before the world is able to?
I mean I'm only 17. I haven't seen enough, lived enough to know what suffering means. I've never really had my heart broken, never really crashed or burned.
I mean, I've cried through nights of lonliness, but I've never really felt pain, never really been scared. I'm sheltered, in a sururban bubble where I think I've lived, think I'm strong, a surviour, ready to face the world.
But without fear, without pain and with restraint, am I really even alive? How pathetic a picture do I paint? What potency can I write, what sembalnce of meaning can I even hope to convey without being born? Never mind being saved.
Until we go to both extremes, reaching satisfaction and euphoria and emptiness and desperation, are we built on a foundation of lies? Is there meaning to anything we do, until we flip the coin, fall up and down and live on the other side.
I want you to hit me as hard as you can.
I want you to love me as hard as you can.
I want an ordeal I need to get through. I need to be born, to rise from the ashes, only myself to blame.
Nothing comes from nothing, and all happiness deep down comes from suffering, making it through, scared and wiser, experienced and awakened.
No, I've never really suffered but I know someday I will have to. I just hope I can take it. I'm so fucking used to getting up at three in the morning and writting nonsense for hours, that I won't be able to make sense of in the morning.
I almost feel scared, saddened by fear I can't even contemplate, terror I've never known. Will it meet me head on, or will I trip, and side step into my doom, somehere lost in the future.
Somewhere in the grandscope of time, of things that haven't happened yet, but are already effecting us. Will I ever sync up?
Will I even hit the ground, stop floating living in impossible dreams and realize just how unspecial I am, how many times these same thoughts, same words have been thought by others. How much I define myself by the creation, by the inspirations, awakenings of others, while I blindly stumble around looking for my own, seeking my demise.
I am nothing new.
I am nothing unique, I am nothing original. I am nothing the world hasn't seen a hundred times before. I will live, serve my term on earth, and then be forgotten. Just be forgotten ashes and rose petals.
Recycled.
I will leave nothing behind, no morals, no messages. I will leave no hole in the world. I will just suddenly cease to be. Everyone who holds me as something will one day be nothing too.
And until I realize that, really realize it, not just say it because its' true, until I know it with every fibre of my being, every breathe,
until then,
I am nothing.
I am just another human being. Just another end to the world.
We don't matter, no matter what we do, whar we accomplish. No matter how many people follow us, believe what we say, see our art, read our words, subscribe to our manifesto, someday it will be meaningless. Perverted and misinterpreted. Corrupted. No matter how important society sees us as, no matter the conotation of our names, our headlines, someday we will be forgotten.
We will be dirt. We will no longer exist in energy or memory or any form.
And all those of us who never did anything, nothing will change, no one will know our names.
Someday our great rock in space, our light to the world will implode.
Erased.
Fallen off the charts, off the edge, out of the world.
Someday life here will cease. I don't know how, I do know why but someday it will. It's been borrowed time, too good too be true. Since the beginning of time, we've waited for it to end. We've had theories, dates, and countdowns, trying to plan everything, remembering Girl Guides and swearing again to be prepared.
But really, it won' t be expected, won't be planned.
It'll be an ordinary day, walking down the street in the eye of the storm, when we'll look up and scream , "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"
And then darkness. Too late.
No chance of resurrection, no hope for redemption. Just darkness.
And the next world will look at a dead blue planet, the next superpower, at our sad facade of civilization, and wonder if it could have even supported life, (and truly I wouldn't call this life). We'll be primative, barbarians of sorts. They'll look down upon us and wonder why the past was so dark and cruel.
We're not a special era. We're the prodical children, who never went home for forgivness, who denied birthright of salvation. We're the kids we ran away from home and joined the circus. We get our kicks off serving our own selfish needs, destroying what past lives have tried to, even died to perserve.
We are the downfall. As long as we continue to breathe.
And then nothing will matter. It won't matter if you were saving money, going to school, checking into rehab, or getting out of jail. It'll be stupid to put your life on hold, a fool only waits. It's a fool who says, I'll do it tommorrow, I'll do when I have time, money or energy, when I lose weight. The fool sits at home, and waits, putting more time between purgatory and life.
There'll always be a thousand reasons not to do something!
Take a deep breathe, bite down hard and jump.
Don't look forward.
Don't look how far you'll fall, to see what'll hit you at the bottom
Lock in, Baby.
Just fall
Don't space out
Don't disappear
Don't go to your happy place
And don't forget
Hold my invisible hand and come to me. I'm waiting at the bottom. You've forgotten my name, I've forgotten my name. I'm in pieces on the floor.
Look up as you fall, and watch what you're missing, rush past you.
On the way down, it no longer means anything.
Please don't wait for heaven. Don't think heaven will save you, or hell will
punish the lucky, ungrateful and cruel. They may never get theirs.
In real life, things aren't fair. There's no comeupance at the end of the story, because the story never ends. As long as there's someone left to keep living, keep writing, all that changes is the chapter.
Give them their just desserts, be their personal Fury, their hell on earth. There's nothing else for you to do. No other power but in attack.
What if heaven and hell are nothing but ancient mythos, told to the mediveal peasants so they would keep working with out rebellion or protest, in hopes of heaven and not punish tyrant rulers who would get punished in spades, in hellfires. A coping mechanism, keeping everyone in their station, squeezed into a ridgid little place, everyone in line.
But what goes around and comes around and bites you on the ass.
And Karma's a bitch
The priveledged are always priviledged, and some of us are just meant to be the casualities, the people dead in the street, you step over on the way to work. Falling even as we rise. Falling in the past, present and future all at once. Unstoppable tracks.
The end is breathing down on my neck, and my pessimism posesses me like bitter words, in acid on my willing tongue.
Stop me.
Please
With any means
Wink at me in a crowd, and give me an ally
Write me a song and give me a voice
Give me a mission. Give me a means
Something to corrupt boredom of being
To consume unfulfillment
Something to become
Serve me myself on a silver platter and laugh as I stumble to my broken feet.
I'm losing myself and fin ding myself at the same time. Finally falling faster.
-Are you that girl?
-I was earlier tonight.
Now I'll try to forget what I think, what I know, what I said. There's nothing for me here, 'cause if I'm going to die, I'd rather not know it. It's too much pressure.I'm closing my eyes. Going back to sleep.
Forgetting to breathe.
Buckle up.
It'll be a bumpy ride to forever, to watch as it ends.
- A Jonesing Catcher Lux Davis
I feel fine. Seriously not disturbed or anything.
And just a tip. Never go on any sort of journey looking for the American Dream. It ALWAYS ends badly!
I'm history's youngest child. Twelve years old, even as I sit here seventeen.
Candy necklace and candy diamond ring.
I just never learned that less is more.
On a Sweeter note, after that last super, self indulgent rant post.
