Saturday, May 23, 2009

My Lifeline.
Part One.

January 1999

I feel like I am walking in someone else's skin. I feel like I am going through the motions of my life, but not experiencing it wholly and purely, because I am afraid to let my guard down, I think I am too good to feel vulnerable and excited and nervous. I look around me and see fresh faces on their own for the first time in their lives, yet instead of relishing in it, they group together and make sure they're not standing too far away less someone thinks they aren't part of the crowd, they laugh just a little too loud at a joke as if it's the funniest thing, yet their eyes shift for a split second and convey that they don't really understand. I wonder if they know that what they have isn't really independence, it's a repeat of high school and trying to fit in at all cost. Not me. That's why I'm standing far away, and don't laugh because I get the joke and it isn't funny at all. I don't need anyone because I have myself and I am the only person I can count own so I keep everyone at arms length because I don't want them to see too much of who I really am because deep down, I want to be part of the in crowd, I want to hang with the cool kids, but I'm afraid to let my guard down and be myself because I don't want them to know how fucked in the head I am; I don't want them to see me teetering on the brink of normality. My reality is a distorted reality. I'm so far removed from myself that when I look in the mirror, I don't see me, all I see is the false image of the person I project to the outside world, but when I look inside, I see just a body numb to everything I interact with. I move through my one and only life like a zombie. I am not a alive. I am...I am full of shit.

* * * * * *

I close my journal and once and for all decide that it is nothing but pages and pages of pitiful self righteous crap. I need to get out of here.

I look at the clock, relieved to see that it's finally 1 am. I open my desk drawers and reach into the back corner, my fingers grab a flat tin case. This tin holds the most precious things in the world to me; the contents of this tin are giving me life support, without it I wouldn't be able to hand this world.

I lick the joint one last time and admire my work. It is only now, armed with this crutch, that I feel comfortable to venture into the real, physical world; concrete to touch with my own two hands and abstract so that it only shows me darkness and failure, disappointment and fear, disillusionment and false hope. It is only at this late hour that my distorted self can coincide with the world that humanity inhabits.

The night silence rings in my ears as I unlock the door and make my way into the open. The world is dark and cold. I immediately notice the darkness, but the coldness deceives me. After walking a few feet into the darkness the piercing cold engulfs me and penetrates my body. I get to the back porch and I slowly tiptoe to my corner. The sound of my rubber soul connecting with the pavement is my only indication that I am alive; tap, crunch, tap, tap - that I'm physically existing in this world. My mind is so focused on the sound that before I know it I'm bending over the metal porch railing looking down into the lake. I focus my eyes on the lake below and wonder if anybody else can see me looking down at my watery reflection. The glassy water down below looks beautiful - or are my eyes so glassy that I can't distinguish between beauty and what's real?

I retreat to the back corner every of the porch every night to elevate my being and reach a consciousness in which I can escape; escape my reality, escape my existence. I sit in this dark corner and all I see is a dense fog hanging over the lake; the fog gets cloudier as I smoke myself into oblivion. It's as if an eruption of disillusion released it's presence into my life and never settled or dissipated but hovered on my shoulders disturbing my mind so that nothing could being me out this haze; a haze I felt I'd be making my way through out my entire life.

Tonight I am not alone at this late hour, the inviting sound of laughter from somewhere floats to my ears. In contrast to the misery that I slung over my shoulders, the low, somewhat raspy voice that exploded in sequences of laughter made a resonating impact on me. Who was this person who could laugh so freely in such a dark and cold world? I feel as if I could be part of that carefree world, but was I so desperate that I needed to hear something that wasn't there...only time would tell.

I go to bed that night haunted by that laugh. It made me desire, want need to live again; and I wonder if one day that could be me laughing and smiling again. No sound has ever moved me so; I think about it incessantly.


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