More than an affirmation or orders:
Stop calling my phone.
Stop checking my writing.
Stop planting seeds.
Stop pushing on my loved ones.
Stop your manipulative tactics.
We don’t want your seediness or need.
We don’t want your drama or inconsideration.
We don’t want you as you are. No.
So don’t bother coming by at all until you get better.
I keep pretending that there is life still in this box…. when there just isn’t.
I wanted peace; I got it. I wanted quiet; I got it. I wanted no drama, no fighting, no angry letters, no manipulation of words, no crushing of minds or spirits, no imposition of hierarchy. I wanted room to breathe, to be me, to wake to softness and stability, to relax into open spaces and mental vacations. I didn’t want someone to speak through me; I wanted my own words and my own voice. I have received all these things… with a heavy sacrifice that they will never understand.
They are not strong individuals. They are only strong when working others. They need the attention, the reverence or fear. They need their name to be known and spoken, passed on to others. They need others to do the work for them at times. They need discussion and opposition to discover themselves. They need ambiguity and questions to hide behind. They will never be wrong; they will always be justified in everything they do… especially when they have minions to agree with them. The minions must agree with their motives and actions, as the minions are their conscience.
A rebel is cast out or thrown to the wolves depending on the infraction. The rebel can manage. The rebel is one individual that is stronger than the collective. You keep your Self, your identitiy, love, essence, truth, soul… you walk alone.
In the silence, I am leaving,
One step at a time to Forever.
In the silence, I am fostering peace within myself,
Allowing the human drama we created to completely bleed out.
In the silence, Hope is lost again and again
Without the pain, with the release of a certain liberation.
In the silence, we have said more
Than the words could ever convey clearly.
In the silence, we drift alone
Not necessarily lonely on our driftwood.
In the silence, I can hear my own voice again
No longer lost or entangled with others.
The Silence carries such power. The Silence is often more informative than the words of Man.
The phone is deader than dead.
We generate our own PR.
Before I was willing to fight for an “us” that seemed promised, that we were working on.
Then I had to fight for me from inside the “us.”
Now I am only willing to fight for me and an us that is tangible and active.
I assert that the scapegoat, the villainized (whether “rightfully” so or not) are the ones that are the loneliest, the most self-contained and possess the most inner strength. They must stand at the outskirts with the choice to watch the activity within or to turn away completely. Any lines they still have with connections within keep them tied to a place which they cannot enter. It is a kind of limbo, purgatory if you will.
A true cut is complete. It leaves no remnants, takes no prisoners, provides no alternatives, contains no heroes and keeps nothing.
ALL GONE = schism
Writing letters not intended to be sent is not only a supposedly worth while writing exercise, but also is supposedly therapeutic. We get to say the things we normally can’t or wouldn’t. We’re allowed to be different people and speak from different voices. Largely these voices are the self-dubbed “evils” within us that we mustn’t let out of our recognizable face, our self image that we chose. We deny them under the sun and moon. We deny them in favor of rationality or undisturbed harmony. But they come out eventually in one manner or another.
There are a host of different terms we could use for this seeming breach of identity, when, in actuality, it may be the last fiber of honesty in us left. I refuse to use any of the terms I’ve heard. Terms have a way of bending observations to fit into said term’s mold. Terms have histories, reputations and baggage. Coin a phrase… and beware of placing a value on it that one did not intend. Concepts are hungry; they like to be fed. As a hivemind or social network, they spread with ease like fire over gasoline spills. Before any of us expected, we’re all burning.
Likewise, biting your tongue at every murmur of a concept is not in anyone’s best interest either. Transmission can act as feeding as much as withholding can act as provocation. Something so revered or feared that its name must not be uttered or its nature must not be discussed is drawing on all the fears or reverence of its legions or prisoners. It stirs at the provocation. All it needs is allowance to be released. This can come in the form of zealotry or pawn-like acceptance; it can come in the form of resignation of resistance, disbelief in one’s own ability to stand, handing the power over to it.
Wait, I started off talking about writing letters as therapy. Yeah, I remember now. Once creative thought and language spin together in the same sphere, concepts like to prod us into giving them attention.
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Anyway… my letter…
Dear Strikethrough,
1. Fuck you.
2. the answer is “No.”
Efforts that go invalidated will not continue. Any little death in this is as much your responsibility as it is mine. We created space, time and life together. It cannot be destroyed by one; it must be destroyed by the same hands and minds that created it in the first place. We’re all being held accountable. We’ll all face a different landscape in different ways.
Revolt will continue. My voice will no longer chime with yours; we left that vacation. One of the worse assaults to me is to put me in a box you’ve made for me, labeled with a name in your handwriting that contain toys and food of your dictation.
I believed in our something… more than I have believed in a lot of things, especially as I’ve grown older. This fall was too far. Heaven will not be regained. Some may name a new Heaven in another space-time, but I will likely not enter. I can skirt the fringe, stick a toe in, but I am solid here on Earth. I am wholly “me” here on Earth. In the empty fields, under the blessings of clouds and blue, in the warmth of the day star or the mirror of the moon, I am just as I am in the moment. I am not ranked; I am not judged; I am not speculated upon, molded or tugged. I am as I am.
An individual can never make another individual WANT or CARE. The abundance or lack of desire inherently directs the action, overrides the “apparent” intent of the action. Sometimes it is so difficult for us to admit our self-fulfilling prophecies, especially when we fight so hard against what we truly desire. Admittance is the first shaft of light into a different world.
We travel different worlds. We can hop rifts unknowingly, landing in alien universes that we never anticipated. Not defining parameters, not laying disclaimers and not knowing what we want can land us in the most unpredicted places. We must get on. Sometimes there’s no way back… or actually, most times. Or rather, if there is, “back” is never the same. Every microsecond bleeds and diverges; the phylogenic trees are innumerable. How can we look across them at each other and say we know the other?
Change. It is a god.
One that many people try to bargain with.
I have your number.
An ironic sign-off inserted here most tongue-in-cheek,
Chameleon
Really… Do we all inhabit our own thought-prisons continually? What about them is something we can’t seem to give up?
I get dizzy at times. The world seems to wobble as I can’t stomach the food any longer. I operate without apologies when me and my body are two rather than one.
I chose OUT; I walk OUT. The lines are fed to me as if I am still IN, but the line is dead for me… as it always was. Where one hears words, I hear static. Where one finds solace, I find disdain.
The wings of the Green Mess sound like razor lullabies ripping through the minds and mouths. Through him I see the futility in the Absurd as clearly as the liberation.
It was my responsibility to take care of the patrons in the midst of the offender’s shit storm. Already responsible for near-accidents, disappearances, and a few deaths… I was the only one that could recognize the face, and I was the one to end it. I followed the offender. Though frail and pathetic, I laid my hands upon her to assume the role of punisher. She begged me not to hurt her. Giving into the slivers of compassion that wormed their way to the back of my skull, I merely threw her to the ground. She bruised many places upon impact, but she knew I was capable of disassembling her.
She stood up in a moment of detachment and clarity, looking so unlike the harbinger of doom, and she said this to me: “You are blessed with the Martial art; you did nothing wrong.”
