Outside on the curb, in what passes for winter air in Arizona, everything looks like it’s on fire. Everything’s burning.
The coffee in my left hand. The cigarette in my right. My breath is the smoke from the cold fire in my stomach. The exhaust pipe on my car. It’s been parked for a couple hours. I forgot my keys in the ignition and left the engine idling. It’s almost out of gas.
My brain isn’t here today. It’s in the snow. In the cold. I’m not good with managing keys lately. I can’t seem to keep the ones i need or get rid of the ones i should.
This isn’t a story about a hero, only kindling. An inexhaustible supply. The flames wouldn’t be eternal if they actually consumed anything. This isn’t even a story.
This isn’t a journal. It’s garbage determined to be misinterpreted. My journal is tucked in my bag. My snowboarding journal. A present.
The fire is bound to get colder in the snow this weekend. Frozen veins. Check the heart to make sure it’s still moving the ice water around. Check the breaths for the smoke. Back inside now, the fire raises my nipples and goosebumps.
There isn’t any real reason to feel bad. This has nothing to do with me. Maybe I am just channeling other people’s shit.
That’s me. The human toilet. Channeling everyones shit.
Gather round, you Corpses. Bring your Piglets and your Whores. See the Amazing Walking Talking Human Toilet.
Flush.
Hey kids! Get your relationship advice here. All the mercury and mystery you neeeed to succeeeed.
Flush.
It’s a day for this. It’s a day for psychosis. For neurosis. For perscriptions. Not the nice candy colored yummies. The generics. Large white pills chalk coated. No need to make them easy to go down because when you are taking these, things aren’t supposed to be easy. I’m pouring enough of these down my throat to make my skin white and chasing them with enough caffiene to keep me awake and staring.
Down goes the medicine. No spoon full of sugar.
Flush.
No one will ever love you for you. No one. They will love a concept they build up independent of you, that they hold independent of you and they worship totally independent of you. And when they loathe and discard it… it will have nothing to do with you. Nothing that you do will ever directly affect this idolic concept. This is not a message of hopelessness. This is not a message of hope. This is a message of truth. I seek truth. I bring truth. I am truth. I am the Human Toilet.
Flush.
Things will get better. How can you appreciate the sunrise if you never experience the darkness? What’s that quote? It’s better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all. I love ya Dave you’re a great friend. As you journey through your darkness I’ll always be around until you make it through the fog. That was a great post. Still waiting for the book!
Like I said. It really has nothing to do with me. I’m just the toilet processing everything.
Lemme see if I can put this in a way that won’t make you feel worse. The truth is what you seek? Here are a few truths for ya:
You’re not channeling anything except your own grief. I’ve been that toilet my entire life without realy realizing it; feeling bad half the time not because I was unhappy, but because the stranger passing me on the street had his life circling the drain. You deal with it. You cope. You learn to channel the good with the bad so they even out a little more.
People love ideals because it’s safe. You don’t have to connect with people – they can’t hurt you by revealing who they really are, because that doesn’t really matter anyway. Maybe people can’t really love completely. Maybe it’s been bred out of us by generations of buyers and sellers. That doesn’t mean miracles don’t happen. It makes you appreciate Love all the more when you really do find it.
My motto: If you give up on dreams and ideals, you might as well slit your own wrists. Nothing will ever be worth it, not even living.
So cheer up, grin wide and you might actually find that the smile itself makes you feel just a little better. *hugs*
You sound like you are in numb agony and that is tragic. What do you think makes your agony and why can’t you free yourself from the mire? Do you enjoy the agony because it gives you a purpose and makes you “deep”? Without your agony and pain, who would you be?
I’m not discounting the agony of a tortured soul. I just wonder if the reason you are miserable is because you don’t want to be happy – who would you be then?
and what a fine Human Toilet you are. I’d sit on you any time
I don’t think it’s really “deep” if you are just empty.
You should read a book called “The Way To Love” by Anthony De Mello. Dunno if you’re ready for the concepts in the book – but if you are, it could do you some good – change your perspective and therefore your environment. Of course, you could be like some people and insist that the ideas in the book are false or that they’re not applicable to them.
But – it’s a pathway to freedom – and love. If you can’t locate a copy – I’ll mail one to you if you’re interested. It’s a tiny book – full of great thoughts.
You know I love a good book. I’ll take a look at it. Especially if it has pictures. Dick and Jane.