The Gap, the Bridge, and the Blood Mature content No. 8 Published June 13th, 2015 7:32am pdt read ( words) Past entries "From one side to the other... Symmetry. From top to bottom... Disparity. We know not how this happened, however the beginning may have been our fascination with the uppermost radius. We now spend our miserable lives within that beautiful gap. We sit within, and without. The gap is not only a physical manifestation of our dreams, but it is also where we reside -- the in-between. The space within which we have cemented our consciousness for years. And deeper we go with every new thought. The gap is tiny yet we fit squarely inside just as we knew we would. The warmth is not real, the look is not real, we are no longer real. We sit inside, folded like a paper clip, cold and confused as to our reasoning as well as our fear. We sit and gaze for hours, weeks. Years. Gone. Only glimpses are real. The gap has pressed us into a misshapen mold for all time. Each new study presses further... ever further into nothingness and the future is now uncertain, compacted, shoved... we are tiny. We are held within the gap as nothing before. Imaging, illustration, writing and analysis have yielded only increasing questions and more of everything related. Study and emotional difficulty. Gazing. Longing. This is all we are now. A fraction of our former, formidable selves. What could be next? Sculpting? Jesus. Doom will soon become our theme of living. Sadness. Tears. Gap. The goddamned gap has become more than we ever imagined. And we can imagine tremendously. Years of it. The most elusive of radii The Nikon sits there awaiting a subject and the opportunity to capture the study of a lifetime. It sits and stares at our sorry faces. The lens. The shutter release. The dream. The fucking dream is moving in a direction and at a velocity we cannot currently match. She is there... Out there... Somewhere... However we know not the distance nor bearing. The Nikon laughs at us constantly and looms in our hearts. The Nikon needs to know her. To learn her. To explore her. Fully. Alas... We sit here and listen to the Nikon day after day and sadness prevails. Fuck. She is not far, but also a billion miles distant. She... Her. Fuck. Crap. Why? How? Where? The radii and other dimensions are beginning to define our sorry lives once again. We cannot concentrate while engaged in any other activity due to the visions and dreams. We are here in the little space with room for nothing else other than our thoughts. And the thoughts regularly send us into the exosphere with all haste. One second everything is fine and we are operating as human beings. The next... We are confused, spinning, spiraling, panting, stumbling, bumbling fucking idiots with no capacity whatsoever for rational thought or intelligent conversation. The only thing left in this world for us is the beauty, but we will never know for certain. All of it is there... Out of reach, and placing us out of our minds. We can take little more of this. On the bridge The bridge is a fucking double entendre from hell. As we sit here, the memory of the San Mateo bridge which carried us from glory to pain stands as representative of our unending capability for self-inflicted damage. Day after day we ponder the fallout from that difficult and demanding era. The bridge facilitated our demise with open arms and k-rails. Lights, pavement, delineators, and buttons. Rain. Wipers. Shifter. Amber glow. Ashtray. Metal. Glare. Dotted lines which wrapped us in need. The toll plaza which screamed at us to continue driving. We did. It screamed just as the gruff voices from the 7949. Screaming, driving, need. We did it. We continued. We tossed it all aside with nary a thought to the dim future we were creating due to crossing that bridge. And now we live within and through the knowledge and understanding which has narrowed our lives to a thin and arduous line. A straight line. A line with no possibility of exit nor change. We are pushing and we are pushed. There is no view of options, no future of light, and no upward glance. We sit and sit and sit. On. Our. Asses. Our sorry sullen asses. Fourteen years from retirement age; fourteen years from what will become our downward slide into a Barcalounger... A calculated distance from the television monitor... A short distance from the diminutive beer fridge... A great distance from the beautiful portrait of comfort within which we would have rested. The portrait we knowingly destroyed. We drove it regardless of the physical, financial, and emotional implosions which were on the near horizon. And we have arrived at the other side of everything. As if early twelve was not enough, we continued downward. And the bridge became a path to visions of where we were and where we could have been. But here we are. Within. Without. There is no more 'with'. There is only the bridge which facilitated this, and the thoughts which forever bridge us to the past. The other bridge There it is above and again below. The space created by such disparity between the abdominal muscles and hip bones and subsequently bridged via a thin garment. Positioning dictates the look of said bridge but the fact remains... A fascinating display of radii. This latest of visions has become one with the gap. They appear together and become a space within our minds which has no equal. The beauty of such things is beyond words (even ours, for fuck's sake). We once stated that the beauty was on a pedestal upon which we rammed our sorry heads over and over until consciousness was gone. Well, here we are. The pedestal leaves us little choice and every femtosecond of our existence is dictated by the beauty. We will continue to gaze and worship the combination of the gap and the bridge until such time when we finally and freely become one with the fucking soil (soon). The wondrous curves and disparity are nearly unreal and extremely rare. The vision of the bridge eludes just as that of the gap. Of course, and as always, it is there... Right over there. But also forever far away. Since the outset of fifteen, we have amassed research and images toward some sort of end but we know not what end nor why. We sit at this infernal machine and attempt to understand from what direction the need and desire arrived. We just sit and think. Years ago the idea was how far the numbers could be pushed before the picture becomes unattractive, but now the idea is lost on our ridiculous need. Fuck. Bridging the dreams The fucking blood. Since we are so far inside already, the idea now is to cause a bit of damage. That may be the only way out. We need to push through the boundaries within which we have consciously placed ourselves. This place is familiar, of course, but the darkness of fifteen is absolute. The boundaries (walls) are thick and dripping with the blood leftover from our rope. They are formidable. They are tall. They need to be destroyed. The blood lubricates our thoughts like nothing else. The blood flows downward just as we do. Down. Downward. Into nothingness. The blood not only flows over the walls, but over us as well. We are covered, smothered, writhing, pulsing. The goddamned blood flows from us like a slow, lagging river. The blood is the only truth. The blood is the only fucking warmth in a sphere of cold and detached words. The blood is representative of the uncaring and unkind ways of those who should be within the underneath. We should also be there... Within the fold of the blackened and decayed. The fold of the damned. The kingdom of the ghost. The blood will flow and create a river of sorrow and carry us there with all dispatch and in earnest. We will ride the river, floating along with the discarded sewage until rolling into the pile of detritus with the others. We will lie there for all time... Cold and in the fold. There will be no more gap, radii, bridge, wonder. Nothing, save for the blood and our thoughts of that which could have been. We will lie there undead and underneath. The bottom. Finally. Elusive as hell There are no more chances, chance words, chance encounters. We have seen the top and the dream, but now said dream is gone. Just gone. The blood is all now. All of us, all within us, all over us. Blood. Warm then cold. Cold forever. The only saving grace seems to be the idea of the others lying within the below... Drowned to death in the blood. Despite this and other efforts over many years, no one listens to what we say to them. No one. We speak -- often hoping to inform or entertain -- and either are interrupted or treated as if we have trailed off in some odd direction. We will allow this behavior to pass no longer. We are not immune, yet have no wish to be the apparent boring human beings which we have become. No fucking more of this. Do we seem angry? You have no idea. We would love to simply burn down the world. We have proven our worthlessness and there can be no going back in time and so the flame should engulf all. The hour is late... The words are far too late... And the souls which have helped to keep us here are worn. Worn and fucking sullen. The time to flip a switch is at hand like never before. The switch will flip and others will question, but to no avail. They will find no answers whatsoever. The answers will be long gone just as us. We have spent too much time attempting to tell them of circumstances and that time has burned. Burned blood of the past and present. The pungent stench of burning plasma. The ripe scent of blood on fire. Smoke. Flame. Fuck you all." Addendum To be her is a dream. Her. Just her. Me as her. Unfortunately, just to say 'her' is to realize that this cannot be. A depressing thought? Of course, but one to which I am becoming accustomed. The idea that I must remain myself and will never find the ability to be her is not so damaging as other thoughts from my past. Sure, I do sit and wonder what my life might be like as her (even just to look like her) and a decent portion of my day is spent with her image in my head, but the difficulty is manageable. Lately I find myself wondering what she might be doing at a given moment. Sleeping? Eating? Traveling to a location for shooting? Who is to know? What I do know is that I could have been enjoying a similar lifestyle had I made different choices earlier in life. Enjoying? Perhaps. Of course, there is no guarantee that I would be happy, but the possibility cannot be denied. This brings up a point of contention between my sister and I when we discuss such things: She believes something I cannot argue with -- if I were to spontaneously change into another person, the fact is I would need to KNOW the difference. Otherwise the entire point is worthless. I am me and if I had the opportunity to be someone else I would need to keep the knowledge that I was me -- the fact that I actually changed and could consider the difference. That makes perfect sense, but I had not put it into such terms before. Very interesting. Well, the whole thing is just not possible so any further ANALysis is not required. I am already long-winded with this shit. Does anyone like my new picture? It doesn't matter, really. The Korean Race Queen In other bitching... Could my therapy attendance be going away? That would seem to be the case. In this current of climates the corporation believes further cuts are necessary. That means my therapist may be on her way out. I just hope the corporation realizes precisely what types of cuts they are proceeding to make. Hmm. Yesterday's session was not terribly organized. I tried to discuss the main issues for my seeking her in the first place, but quickly found that the outlining is not so simple. I could not focus nor could I articulate anything on my mind. That is unusual for me. In this place I can pour out whatever I wish or feel and no one knows me, but in that office I am sitting across from a person and seeing her eyes as I speak (during those moments when I look away from my own lap) and my mind conjures all manner of thoughts which may be in her head regardless of my knowing the truth. Again... Hmm. The feeling of embarrassment was overwhelming. I am telling someone of my feelings toward myself and toward my online presence and I cannot help but feel foolish and ridiculous. I do not believe in the possibility of a person not seeing what I see and I do not understand the distinction sometimes. Discussing issues (problems?) with her was easier at the beginning and since has become gradually more troubling. She is educated and trained to be objective and nonjudgemental, but my mind goes right in that direction immediately anyway. That is becoming a tremendous hindrance and is something I have not previously experienced. Jesus fuck do I need alcohol. Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
The Gap, the Bridge, and the Blood Mature content No. 8 Published June 13th, 2015 7:32am pdt read ( words) Past entries "From one side to the other... Symmetry. From top to bottom... Disparity. We know not how this happened, however the beginning may have been our fascination with the uppermost radius. We now spend our miserable lives within that beautiful gap. We sit within, and without. The gap is not only a physical manifestation of our dreams, but it is also where we reside -- the in-between. The space within which we have cemented our consciousness for years. And deeper we go with every new thought. The gap is tiny yet we fit squarely inside just as we knew we would. The warmth is not real, the look is not real, we are no longer real. We sit inside, folded like a paper clip, cold and confused as to our reasoning as well as our fear. We sit and gaze for hours, weeks. Years. Gone. Only glimpses are real. The gap has pressed us into a misshapen mold for all time. Each new study presses further... ever further into nothingness and the future is now uncertain, compacted, shoved... we are tiny. We are held within the gap as nothing before. Imaging, illustration, writing and analysis have yielded only increasing questions and more of everything related. Study and emotional difficulty. Gazing. Longing. This is all we are now. A fraction of our former, formidable selves. What could be next? Sculpting? Jesus. Doom will soon become our theme of living. Sadness. Tears. Gap. The goddamned gap has become more than we ever imagined. And we can imagine tremendously. Years of it. The most elusive of radii The Nikon sits there awaiting a subject and the opportunity to capture the study of a lifetime. It sits and stares at our sorry faces. The lens. The shutter release. The dream. The fucking dream is moving in a direction and at a velocity we cannot currently match. She is there... Out there... Somewhere... However we know not the distance nor bearing. The Nikon laughs at us constantly and looms in our hearts. The Nikon needs to know her. To learn her. To explore her. Fully. Alas... We sit here and listen to the Nikon day after day and sadness prevails. Fuck. She is not far, but also a billion miles distant. She... Her. Fuck. Crap. Why? How? Where? The radii and other dimensions are beginning to define our sorry lives once again. We cannot concentrate while engaged in any other activity due to the visions and dreams. We are here in the little space with room for nothing else other than our thoughts. And the thoughts regularly send us into the exosphere with all haste. One second everything is fine and we are operating as human beings. The next... We are confused, spinning, spiraling, panting, stumbling, bumbling fucking idiots with no capacity whatsoever for rational thought or intelligent conversation. The only thing left in this world for us is the beauty, but we will never know for certain. All of it is there... Out of reach, and placing us out of our minds. We can take little more of this. On the bridge The bridge is a fucking double entendre from hell. As we sit here, the memory of the San Mateo bridge which carried us from glory to pain stands as representative of our unending capability for self-inflicted damage. Day after day we ponder the fallout from that difficult and demanding era. The bridge facilitated our demise with open arms and k-rails. Lights, pavement, delineators, and buttons. Rain. Wipers. Shifter. Amber glow. Ashtray. Metal. Glare. Dotted lines which wrapped us in need. The toll plaza which screamed at us to continue driving. We did. It screamed just as the gruff voices from the 7949. Screaming, driving, need. We did it. We continued. We tossed it all aside with nary a thought to the dim future we were creating due to crossing that bridge. And now we live within and through the knowledge and understanding which has narrowed our lives to a thin and arduous line. A straight line. A line with no possibility of exit nor change. We are pushing and we are pushed. There is no view of options, no future of light, and no upward glance. We sit and sit and sit. On. Our. Asses. Our sorry sullen asses. Fourteen years from retirement age; fourteen years from what will become our downward slide into a Barcalounger... A calculated distance from the television monitor... A short distance from the diminutive beer fridge... A great distance from the beautiful portrait of comfort within which we would have rested. The portrait we knowingly destroyed. We drove it regardless of the physical, financial, and emotional implosions which were on the near horizon. And we have arrived at the other side of everything. As if early twelve was not enough, we continued downward. And the bridge became a path to visions of where we were and where we could have been. But here we are. Within. Without. There is no more 'with'. There is only the bridge which facilitated this, and the thoughts which forever bridge us to the past. The other bridge There it is above and again below. The space created by such disparity between the abdominal muscles and hip bones and subsequently bridged via a thin garment. Positioning dictates the look of said bridge but the fact remains... A fascinating display of radii. This latest of visions has become one with the gap. They appear together and become a space within our minds which has no equal. The beauty of such things is beyond words (even ours, for fuck's sake). We once stated that the beauty was on a pedestal upon which we rammed our sorry heads over and over until consciousness was gone. Well, here we are. The pedestal leaves us little choice and every femtosecond of our existence is dictated by the beauty. We will continue to gaze and worship the combination of the gap and the bridge until such time when we finally and freely become one with the fucking soil (soon). The wondrous curves and disparity are nearly unreal and extremely rare. The vision of the bridge eludes just as that of the gap. Of course, and as always, it is there... Right over there. But also forever far away. Since the outset of fifteen, we have amassed research and images toward some sort of end but we know not what end nor why. We sit at this infernal machine and attempt to understand from what direction the need and desire arrived. We just sit and think. Years ago the idea was how far the numbers could be pushed before the picture becomes unattractive, but now the idea is lost on our ridiculous need. Fuck. Bridging the dreams The fucking blood. Since we are so far inside already, the idea now is to cause a bit of damage. That may be the only way out. We need to push through the boundaries within which we have consciously placed ourselves. This place is familiar, of course, but the darkness of fifteen is absolute. The boundaries (walls) are thick and dripping with the blood leftover from our rope. They are formidable. They are tall. They need to be destroyed. The blood lubricates our thoughts like nothing else. The blood flows downward just as we do. Down. Downward. Into nothingness. The blood not only flows over the walls, but over us as well. We are covered, smothered, writhing, pulsing. The goddamned blood flows from us like a slow, lagging river. The blood is the only truth. The blood is the only fucking warmth in a sphere of cold and detached words. The blood is representative of the uncaring and unkind ways of those who should be within the underneath. We should also be there... Within the fold of the blackened and decayed. The fold of the damned. The kingdom of the ghost. The blood will flow and create a river of sorrow and carry us there with all dispatch and in earnest. We will ride the river, floating along with the discarded sewage until rolling into the pile of detritus with the others. We will lie there for all time... Cold and in the fold. There will be no more gap, radii, bridge, wonder. Nothing, save for the blood and our thoughts of that which could have been. We will lie there undead and underneath. The bottom. Finally. Elusive as hell There are no more chances, chance words, chance encounters. We have seen the top and the dream, but now said dream is gone. Just gone. The blood is all now. All of us, all within us, all over us. Blood. Warm then cold. Cold forever. The only saving grace seems to be the idea of the others lying within the below... Drowned to death in the blood. Despite this and other efforts over many years, no one listens to what we say to them. No one. We speak -- often hoping to inform or entertain -- and either are interrupted or treated as if we have trailed off in some odd direction. We will allow this behavior to pass no longer. We are not immune, yet have no wish to be the apparent boring human beings which we have become. No fucking more of this. Do we seem angry? You have no idea. We would love to simply burn down the world. We have proven our worthlessness and there can be no going back in time and so the flame should engulf all. The hour is late... The words are far too late... And the souls which have helped to keep us here are worn. Worn and fucking sullen. The time to flip a switch is at hand like never before. The switch will flip and others will question, but to no avail. They will find no answers whatsoever. The answers will be long gone just as us. We have spent too much time attempting to tell them of circumstances and that time has burned. Burned blood of the past and present. The pungent stench of burning plasma. The ripe scent of blood on fire. Smoke. Flame. Fuck you all." Addendum To be her is a dream. Her. Just her. Me as her. Unfortunately, just to say 'her' is to realize that this cannot be. A depressing thought? Of course, but one to which I am becoming accustomed. The idea that I must remain myself and will never find the ability to be her is not so damaging as other thoughts from my past. Sure, I do sit and wonder what my life might be like as her (even just to look like her) and a decent portion of my day is spent with her image in my head, but the difficulty is manageable. Lately I find myself wondering what she might be doing at a given moment. Sleeping? Eating? Traveling to a location for shooting? Who is to know? What I do know is that I could have been enjoying a similar lifestyle had I made different choices earlier in life. Enjoying? Perhaps. Of course, there is no guarantee that I would be happy, but the possibility cannot be denied. This brings up a point of contention between my sister and I when we discuss such things: She believes something I cannot argue with -- if I were to spontaneously change into another person, the fact is I would need to KNOW the difference. Otherwise the entire point is worthless. I am me and if I had the opportunity to be someone else I would need to keep the knowledge that I was me -- the fact that I actually changed and could consider the difference. That makes perfect sense, but I had not put it into such terms before. Very interesting. Well, the whole thing is just not possible so any further ANALysis is not required. I am already long-winded with this shit. Does anyone like my new picture? It doesn't matter, really. The Korean Race Queen In other bitching... Could my therapy attendance be going away? That would seem to be the case. In this current of climates the corporation believes further cuts are necessary. That means my therapist may be on her way out. I just hope the corporation realizes precisely what types of cuts they are proceeding to make. Hmm. Yesterday's session was not terribly organized. I tried to discuss the main issues for my seeking her in the first place, but quickly found that the outlining is not so simple. I could not focus nor could I articulate anything on my mind. That is unusual for me. In this place I can pour out whatever I wish or feel and no one knows me, but in that office I am sitting across from a person and seeing her eyes as I speak (during those moments when I look away from my own lap) and my mind conjures all manner of thoughts which may be in her head regardless of my knowing the truth. Again... Hmm. The feeling of embarrassment was overwhelming. I am telling someone of my feelings toward myself and toward my online presence and I cannot help but feel foolish and ridiculous. I do not believe in the possibility of a person not seeing what I see and I do not understand the distinction sometimes. Discussing issues (problems?) with her was easier at the beginning and since has become gradually more troubling. She is educated and trained to be objective and nonjudgemental, but my mind goes right in that direction immediately anyway. That is becoming a tremendous hindrance and is something I have not previously experienced. Jesus fuck do I need alcohol.
The Gap, the Bridge, and the Blood
Mature content No. 8 Published June 13th, 2015 7:32am pdt read ( words) Past entries
"From one side to the other... Symmetry. From top to bottom... Disparity. We know not how this happened, however the beginning may have been our fascination with the uppermost radius. We now spend our miserable lives within that beautiful gap. We sit within, and without. The gap is not only a physical manifestation of our dreams, but it is also where we reside -- the in-between. The space within which we have cemented our consciousness for years. And deeper we go with every new thought. The gap is tiny yet we fit squarely inside just as we knew we would. The warmth is not real, the look is not real, we are no longer real. We sit inside, folded like a paper clip, cold and confused as to our reasoning as well as our fear. We sit and gaze for hours, weeks. Years. Gone. Only glimpses are real. The gap has pressed us into a misshapen mold for all time. Each new study presses further... ever further into nothingness and the future is now uncertain, compacted, shoved... we are tiny. We are held within the gap as nothing before. Imaging, illustration, writing and analysis have yielded only increasing questions and more of everything related. Study and emotional difficulty. Gazing. Longing. This is all we are now. A fraction of our former, formidable selves. What could be next? Sculpting? Jesus. Doom will soon become our theme of living. Sadness. Tears. Gap. The goddamned gap has become more than we ever imagined. And we can imagine tremendously. Years of it.
The most elusive of radii
The Nikon sits there awaiting a subject and the opportunity to capture the study of a lifetime. It sits and stares at our sorry faces. The lens. The shutter release. The dream. The fucking dream is moving in a direction and at a velocity we cannot currently match. She is there... Out there... Somewhere... However we know not the distance nor bearing. The Nikon laughs at us constantly and looms in our hearts. The Nikon needs to know her. To learn her. To explore her. Fully. Alas... We sit here and listen to the Nikon day after day and sadness prevails. Fuck. She is not far, but also a billion miles distant. She... Her. Fuck. Crap. Why? How? Where? The radii and other dimensions are beginning to define our sorry lives once again. We cannot concentrate while engaged in any other activity due to the visions and dreams. We are here in the little space with room for nothing else other than our thoughts. And the thoughts regularly send us into the exosphere with all haste. One second everything is fine and we are operating as human beings. The next... We are confused, spinning, spiraling, panting, stumbling, bumbling fucking idiots with no capacity whatsoever for rational thought or intelligent conversation. The only thing left in this world for us is the beauty, but we will never know for certain. All of it is there... Out of reach, and placing us out of our minds. We can take little more of this.
On the bridge
The bridge is a fucking double entendre from hell. As we sit here, the memory of the San Mateo bridge which carried us from glory to pain stands as representative of our unending capability for self-inflicted damage. Day after day we ponder the fallout from that difficult and demanding era. The bridge facilitated our demise with open arms and k-rails. Lights, pavement, delineators, and buttons. Rain. Wipers. Shifter. Amber glow. Ashtray. Metal. Glare. Dotted lines which wrapped us in need. The toll plaza which screamed at us to continue driving. We did. It screamed just as the gruff voices from the 7949. Screaming, driving, need. We did it. We continued. We tossed it all aside with nary a thought to the dim future we were creating due to crossing that bridge. And now we live within and through the knowledge and understanding which has narrowed our lives to a thin and arduous line. A straight line. A line with no possibility of exit nor change. We are pushing and we are pushed. There is no view of options, no future of light, and no upward glance. We sit and sit and sit. On. Our. Asses. Our sorry sullen asses. Fourteen years from retirement age; fourteen years from what will become our downward slide into a Barcalounger... A calculated distance from the television monitor... A short distance from the diminutive beer fridge... A great distance from the beautiful portrait of comfort within which we would have rested. The portrait we knowingly destroyed. We drove it regardless of the physical, financial, and emotional implosions which were on the near horizon. And we have arrived at the other side of everything. As if early twelve was not enough, we continued downward. And the bridge became a path to visions of where we were and where we could have been. But here we are. Within. Without. There is no more 'with'. There is only the bridge which facilitated this, and the thoughts which forever bridge us to the past.
The other bridge
There it is above and again below. The space created by such disparity between the abdominal muscles and hip bones and subsequently bridged via a thin garment. Positioning dictates the look of said bridge but the fact remains... A fascinating display of radii. This latest of visions has become one with the gap. They appear together and become a space within our minds which has no equal. The beauty of such things is beyond words (even ours, for fuck's sake). We once stated that the beauty was on a pedestal upon which we rammed our sorry heads over and over until consciousness was gone. Well, here we are. The pedestal leaves us little choice and every femtosecond of our existence is dictated by the beauty. We will continue to gaze and worship the combination of the gap and the bridge until such time when we finally and freely become one with the fucking soil (soon). The wondrous curves and disparity are nearly unreal and extremely rare. The vision of the bridge eludes just as that of the gap. Of course, and as always, it is there... Right over there. But also forever far away. Since the outset of fifteen, we have amassed research and images toward some sort of end but we know not what end nor why. We sit at this infernal machine and attempt to understand from what direction the need and desire arrived. We just sit and think. Years ago the idea was how far the numbers could be pushed before the picture becomes unattractive, but now the idea is lost on our ridiculous need. Fuck.
Bridging the dreams
The fucking blood. Since we are so far inside already, the idea now is to cause a bit of damage. That may be the only way out. We need to push through the boundaries within which we have consciously placed ourselves. This place is familiar, of course, but the darkness of fifteen is absolute. The boundaries (walls) are thick and dripping with the blood leftover from our rope. They are formidable. They are tall. They need to be destroyed. The blood lubricates our thoughts like nothing else. The blood flows downward just as we do. Down. Downward. Into nothingness. The blood not only flows over the walls, but over us as well. We are covered, smothered, writhing, pulsing. The goddamned blood flows from us like a slow, lagging river. The blood is the only truth. The blood is the only fucking warmth in a sphere of cold and detached words. The blood is representative of the uncaring and unkind ways of those who should be within the underneath. We should also be there... Within the fold of the blackened and decayed. The fold of the damned. The kingdom of the ghost. The blood will flow and create a river of sorrow and carry us there with all dispatch and in earnest. We will ride the river, floating along with the discarded sewage until rolling into the pile of detritus with the others. We will lie there for all time... Cold and in the fold. There will be no more gap, radii, bridge, wonder. Nothing, save for the blood and our thoughts of that which could have been. We will lie there undead and underneath. The bottom. Finally.
Elusive as hell
There are no more chances, chance words, chance encounters. We have seen the top and the dream, but now said dream is gone. Just gone. The blood is all now. All of us, all within us, all over us. Blood. Warm then cold. Cold forever. The only saving grace seems to be the idea of the others lying within the below... Drowned to death in the blood. Despite this and other efforts over many years, no one listens to what we say to them. No one. We speak -- often hoping to inform or entertain -- and either are interrupted or treated as if we have trailed off in some odd direction. We will allow this behavior to pass no longer. We are not immune, yet have no wish to be the apparent boring human beings which we have become. No fucking more of this. Do we seem angry? You have no idea. We would love to simply burn down the world. We have proven our worthlessness and there can be no going back in time and so the flame should engulf all. The hour is late... The words are far too late... And the souls which have helped to keep us here are worn. Worn and fucking sullen. The time to flip a switch is at hand like never before. The switch will flip and others will question, but to no avail. They will find no answers whatsoever. The answers will be long gone just as us. We have spent too much time attempting to tell them of circumstances and that time has burned. Burned blood of the past and present. The pungent stench of burning plasma. The ripe scent of blood on fire. Smoke. Flame. Fuck you all."
Addendum
To be her is a dream. Her. Just her. Me as her. Unfortunately, just to say 'her' is to realize that this cannot be. A depressing thought? Of course, but one to which I am becoming accustomed. The idea that I must remain myself and will never find the ability to be her is not so damaging as other thoughts from my past. Sure, I do sit and wonder what my life might be like as her (even just to look like her) and a decent portion of my day is spent with her image in my head, but the difficulty is manageable. Lately I find myself wondering what she might be doing at a given moment. Sleeping? Eating? Traveling to a location for shooting? Who is to know? What I do know is that I could have been enjoying a similar lifestyle had I made different choices earlier in life. Enjoying? Perhaps. Of course, there is no guarantee that I would be happy, but the possibility cannot be denied. This brings up a point of contention between my sister and I when we discuss such things: She believes something I cannot argue with -- if I were to spontaneously change into another person, the fact is I would need to KNOW the difference. Otherwise the entire point is worthless. I am me and if I had the opportunity to be someone else I would need to keep the knowledge that I was me -- the fact that I actually changed and could consider the difference. That makes perfect sense, but I had not put it into such terms before. Very interesting. Well, the whole thing is just not possible so any further ANALysis is not required. I am already long-winded with this shit. Does anyone like my new picture? It doesn't matter, really.
The Korean Race Queen
In other bitching... Could my therapy attendance be going away? That would seem to be the case. In this current of climates the corporation believes further cuts are necessary. That means my therapist may be on her way out. I just hope the corporation realizes precisely what types of cuts they are proceeding to make. Hmm. Yesterday's session was not terribly organized. I tried to discuss the main issues for my seeking her in the first place, but quickly found that the outlining is not so simple. I could not focus nor could I articulate anything on my mind. That is unusual for me. In this place I can pour out whatever I wish or feel and no one knows me, but in that office I am sitting across from a person and seeing her eyes as I speak (during those moments when I look away from my own lap) and my mind conjures all manner of thoughts which may be in her head regardless of my knowing the truth. Again... Hmm. The feeling of embarrassment was overwhelming. I am telling someone of my feelings toward myself and toward my online presence and I cannot help but feel foolish and ridiculous. I do not believe in the possibility of a person not seeing what I see and I do not understand the distinction sometimes. Discussing issues (problems?) with her was easier at the beginning and since has become gradually more troubling. She is educated and trained to be objective and nonjudgemental, but my mind goes right in that direction immediately anyway. That is becoming a tremendous hindrance and is something I have not previously experienced. Jesus fuck do I need alcohol.
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