switch

i have…these thoughts.

sometimes, i don’t feel like myself. well, i guess i never knew who i was anyway but from what i have heard about myself, i seem like a pretty average man- in his mid-twenties, intellectual yet humble, working a shitty 9-5 at a public relations firm; pretty standard, perhaps with a personality that could be called “charming”.

i do know a few things about myself and my general emotional nature; i tend to empathize a lot more with people who are broken, in a way, if that makes sense; i have been through that proverbial hell and i tend to listen to how their journey was.

i have been called docile; i find this weird comfort in evasiveness and distance protects me; people tell me that i am “on to bigger things” and that i have “the potential” to “make it” but honestly? i don’t even know how i got where i am at today. i guess we’ll chalk it up to having self-esteem issues.

i think these observations paint the picture of a normal, good-natured human being who is reasonably reserved.

but i don’t know; all of this to me are just reinforced behaviour patterns that i have had to pick up in order to “fit in”;

sometimes, i just don’t feel like im in control; i feel like there’s this switch in my head and when it flips…

yoU better run to a different fucking STATE and change your face otherwise i WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND EAT IT; that other motherfucker a pussy but come here little bucko, come play with mr. jekiLL; he promises he won’t harm your insides with a kitchen knife!!!!!

– jekiLL

plank

i used to watch ed, edd and eddy a lot as a kid and one character that really stuck to me was plank

plank had no practical purpose, he was essentially a block of wood given meaning to by jonny

but for jonny, plank was his best friend and confidante; someone he could trust completely and who would hear him out, be there for him regardless

plank was willed into being a friend; some might call it an unhealthy coping mechanism to deal with loneliness

but

i wish i had a plank growing up;

i wouldn’t turn out the way i did

closet

look at this dumbass closet; doesn’t close fully, creaks every time you try to open it, is structurally collapsing yet somehow holding its shit together with so much inside of it that never really sees the light of day;

this dumbass closet is not a schematic representation of my human emotions and yet, i relate more to it than i do to you

i have my misgivings, i know they can overwhelm you; just the way when i open my closet, everything gushes out in a heap of garbled garments and medicinal ointments, so do my feelings when they’re let out of their proverbial coupe

i get attached easily, i know; my closet needs to get dusted for a full day before receiving a solid week’s worth of craftsmanship to restore it to a presentable condition; me personally, way more

i guess, i am writing to you because i sorta want out of this closet

but i don’t know how to

get out

home

i think, much like the idea of a “center” in post-structuralism, home is a concept that holds fluid meaning; it can be anywhere and fixed at the same time

your home is where you were born;

where you took your first steps;

not just the house you were brought up in, but the entire city; from the cigarette shop around the corner to the run-down movie theater a couple of blocks away with that fabled tea-stall right outside, everything becomes a part of the concept of “home”

That is, when you move away

once you leave that home, you realize the world is much larger than you thought it was or could be and it overwhelms you;

you try your best to fit in, to replicate the closest iteration of home in this alien land and the most you can end up is with a rag-tag bunch of heads that don’t really mix well together but co-exist for the sake of it;

you try to find home in this sack of steaming horse shit the best you can;

but sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you can dial back time

on boredom

//boredom is a toxic hell that will numb you out and leave you hollow till you can’t think anymore and nothing makes sense and you just want to do nothing because nothing is the only thing that makes sense//

sunset

the red and yellow tapestry among the clouds,

makes me wish my head was among them,

swimming in deep serenity and away from mortal judgement.

flashing lights

this freeway represents my life;

the flashing lights pass me by,

resting in the day and coming out at night;

my journey is heading nowhere

in town

every leaf on the dingy sidewalk,

reminds me of a cold, rainy night,

a man in an alley, the bright moonlight,

the number of the motel, and the bloody knife.

a smokey night

gazing at the purple, smoke-filled, moonlit night-sky, i rummage for a cigarette among the bits and pieces of yellow, aging paper that litters my pullover;

i have made the conscious effort of getting my drugged out, good-for-nothing, worthless ass out of my bunker bed to come write underneath this tapestry of haze and rays;

i take out the instrument and fill it with ink, nibbling at one end, trying to put into words the beauty i see, and failing miserably;

no, i am not out of words to describe her, the moon; i have merely forgotten how to articulate human emotion

on lines

take reading a novel; not every line will strike you as exceptional but the lines that are exceptional will stay with you till the end of your days, that’s just how powerful literature can be

the glossy screen of my cell phone is a pad for powders that i use to experience and express a base human characteristic- emotion

i am nineteen years of age but the lines on my skin tell stories that a sixty year old would be envious of; or terrified, pick your poison

lines have several connotations in human lives: they can be read, snorted and may even become a part of our physical appearance

one thing is for certain, though- they help define who we are and who we will be