Okay, fellow white people. We need to talk.
Let me tell you a story: I was an angry punk teenager. Not violent, but I did a shitton of trespassing, and I got into a…
Here isn’t here, here is there, there being the furthest distance that spans between an idea and now. “There” is the beginning of this sentence, and “here” and has no place in it. “There” is you as much as you are ten years ago as by a hundred years ago as by a million years ago, and “here” just passed in the moment it took to read “there.” I don’t know. I’m not even high.
So. Much. Crosshatching…..
Pretty much how it works.
Something changed in me last week. I’m not sure why or what, but something in me said, “That’s enough.” The last 4 years have been…difficult. I’m surprised I’m still alive, honestly. Technically, one doctor told me I shouldn’t be. She said, “You know you’re lucky, right?” And I just stared at the ground. Last December I was making the preparations for…finality for about two days, and it was so blissful. Even now, those two days were probably the most at peace and content I’ve felt in 4-5 years. It felt like I’d reached the top of a mountain, sat on the highest rock, scanned the view I’d earned after a long climb and just sighed. But then, for various reasons, I realized I can’t. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to find the peace I felt when I knew that I’d made the decision, and that it was mine, and that this would all finally be over, but I guess now I’m at least ready to try, and, well, I haven’t even really been at that point for years. I’m scared, but maybe that’s healthy. A healthy fear of the future, in the same way that being scared of tornadoes and tigers is healthy; it’s the fear that keeps you planning, keeps you trained, and thus keeps you alive. Maybe. I’m not great at these kind of things. Anyway…
I feel like death hangs around my neck. If I’d done better. If I’d been more they wouldn’t be dead. I try and try.
1. Your middle school poetry
2. Old mattresses
4. The scripts for the Star Wars prequels
5. Your cousin, Tommy
Good morning, class.
The holidays are upon us, and while it is a time of celebration, it can also bring stress into our lives. This is especially true when we leave behind our comfort zone to travel home for the holidays. Today, I’m going to lead you through a guided meditation, and introduce…
Reality is a machine. A clunking clockwork thing, a click-clack churning thing, a rolling, unforgiving thing. And the guts, the gears, are all carved by the angle of individual perception: a you, me, us, them take on one instant that becomes the past to the present of another instant that stretches into what we call time. This is machine is built by us as we exist, each one of us contributing to the whole. Some gears are bigger, most are small, but without any one gear the machine lurches, it smokes, it breaks down. It’s not a choice. To exist is to contribute is to be integral to machinations of this thing. And to each gear is the purpose of the machine known? No, but there’s a purpose in existing as felt by the teeth grinding into your being, urging you to roll forward and forward until we all either hit a wall or reach our destination. I’m not even high.
I woke up today full of rage and anger, same way I’ve woken up for the last 6 years. I’m not sure what burns in me without burning out. I’d say I’m able to maintain but I can’t maintain. A broken mind in a flailing body. A wick of light that’s sputtering into darkness. I hate being in my own mind. I meditate. I try to forgive. But every fucking day I wake up into this shit hole of a mind. I keep it inside of my skull, still. Mostly.
- Hey, White Americans. We Need to Talk.