FROM THE ARC HIVES
Things I’ve written throughout my life, just sort of floating about on loose papers and such. The arch hives are their preservation. Reading them ten or more years later really sheds some light on who I am and who I was.
I don’t know exactly when, but somewhere between the end of my teen years and the dawn of my twenties…I lost the spirit to cry or to care about communicating my feelings…or ever attaining a sense of comfort (emotional, physical or otherwise).
And here I am, 28 years old-a decade or more late to analyze and find the source of these haunting and familiar words. It is almost as if I have no need to write right now, because I already documented what I feel eleven years ago. The only difference is now I am actually within reach of understanding what it is and was that I feel so fomented by.
(Based on the paper and handwriting, I was either sixteen or seventeen when I wrote this).
The perfect time to write isn’t always the right time.
It’s times like these we loathe the most. The hardships and pain shared has kept us close. The quiet times go unappreciated.
Sometimes I have hope so easily crushed…it is worth it to hide it; when it hurts so much. I don’t want to be the first to scream out. But I do anyway…from a distance with doubt.
Everyone thinks they’re the only one…the only one who aches deep. We all share a wound that bleeds and seeps.
There’s a wall, a block, made if impenetrable steel. Keeping me away from them. I want to be a part of what is real. Pictures, the memories that can be proven are even lost. So, obsessed with living.
Forgetting is living.
To not feel as loved as you love, when you fear love alone…you are hopeless. I’m not giving, I’m not choking on this.
(Probably 2007 or 2008)
Is there anyone home? Just scream if you can hear me. Is this really happening? Am I really alive? Are you? Flesh, bone…are these things wrapped around me? Where am I? Where is me? Am I everyone? Am I alone? Dangling on a strand is where I place myself. Suspended in time I find you and me.
11:07 pm June 21st, 2007
Lately, I’ve felt like shit. I try not to use my inhaler much because I know that my parents will not refill my prescription…it’s just so hard to breathe. It’s this anxiety eating at my chest. I tried to get a message from Dennis last night, but my nerves wouldn’t have it.
I finished reading Invisible Monsters, and it was fucking great. Now I’m reading Running With Scissors. Books are all that seem to amuse me anymore; sometimes it’s even hard to bring my pupils to the words because I’m just so dead anymore.
I often wonder, when did I become the shell that I see looking back at me in the mirror? It’s getting old. I constantly smoke weed to stay calm and somewhat normal…how pathetic. My stoned state is closer to the norm/normality than my sobriety. (Ganja break- I never came back)
April 5th, 2007 (5:15 PM)
Oh, the paint will echo the SCREAMS of OUR youth
Down to grassy meadow bottoms
(of the Super-soul)
I scream alone, and an earthquake goes through me
Oh, the deep sharp pain of not being filled with glee…who could I EVER be?
This is not about myself or I…
Are these faces serious?
An empty room invested with bodies that move…and dance
I given the chance, would anything change?
We all have one, but do we care about the name?
EVERY MOTION IS THE SAME
I can feel it (shit) bumping and falling in my brain!
From the marrow to the flesh, from the guts to the tongue…
we all crumble down to pieces, satisfied
BUT FIRGET THIS, I AM DUMB
Not a spirit in the forest, nor a cloud in the sky
knows the words that blooms inside…
This THING THAT IS I.
This planet is pretend, bring the silence back again.
I’m living through a pen.
Bring the sadness to an end.
(May 17th, 2007)
BE hind the curtain of my skin and bones
pull up my veins like strings
there are things inside that no one knows
and the endless blood it brings
Screaming, because I can’t sing (I’m never taking off this ring)
I love, I love so much-within, I swell
My lungs only fill for it…and no one can tell
I looks upwards as my eyes drip down
How am I living in a dead-end town?
This disease festers in my throat
I could care less when I
CHOKE, CHOKE, CHOKE
This is getting old fast; confusion, lack of lust
So much difficulty in swallowing air, bit I must
Don’t you see? I’m not well today
I can’t control what I do or say
Who am I? Who are you?
If you love me…is it true?
How long will it last…
I can’t spend forever looking back
I consciously inhale my past, frying in the now (like week old crack)
This is too much…(27 minutes until lunch)