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The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XX

Seasonal Reflections.

To the outside, the autumn of the soul is but falling leaves, and naked stems. But what you saw was a salted raw wound bleeding on the inside with pus oozing to the outside. You’ve always had the power to see beneath the masks I wore, even when I’ve crafted them anew.

In the autumn of the soul, I lost as I rode the shifting tides and watched fragments of myself drown with the ebb and flow. I set sail in hopes of stumbling upon this Brave New Love. Now, I look for reasons behind reason to reason with the cyclical torment that I have arrived to; heartbreak.

To the outside, the winter of the soul is but grey skies, and freezing lakes. But what you did was irreproachable. You reached deep beneath the rubble to extract what was left of me, breaking my facade.

In the winter of the soul, I shattered my remnants. I arrived at the mirage of peace, and I had to let go. I let an illusion guide me for so long that I lost faith in what I am, and put faith in what was. I was trapped beneath all the dreams that lost color, and the faithful faith I put in the faithless. I was once again the faithful hopeless romantic.

To the outside, the spring of the soul is a blossom. But since you’ve helped me arrive at my spring, what care do I have to the outside?

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XIX

Imaginary Friends.

I couldn’t see past the silhouette of her body in direct sunlight. It was one summer afternoon, and the breeze spoke in tongues that only made mine crave hers. As if it was a scene out of a movie, I ran after her, with sand in our toes. I caught her, and she smiled, I kissed her, and she disappeared.

I couldn’t see past the loss of her existence in my life. It was one autumn night, and the wind blow that last candle I had lit to guide her home. As if we never happened, I chased that summer silhouette, under the rain. Never did I catch it, nor have I seen her again.

I danced under the rain, surrounded by all the people I had wished were you.

After a long dance, I was applauded by all those that weren’t you. When all I looked for, was your warm embrace. I walked back to the greenroom, where I toasted to your absence and smiled. I filled the void that you left with gentle caresses from strangers. I fought so hard to keep a memory of your face, but the harder I fought, the less you seemed visible.

You disappeared, even from my head.

The very memory of us has become so distant that I cannot seem to believe it ever happened.

I ran in the sand again, all alone this time. Wondering what this life has in store for me. I ran in circles around strangers that stood still, imitating your stance. But just as a moment lived, you were but a memory, irreplaceable.

I worked so hard on preserving what’s left of you inside me; your touch, your kisses, your silly giggles, that I had created a clone of you that now resides by my side. A carbon copy of you. But even that couldn’t love me for who I was.

You disappeared, and I preserved what was left of you. A memory. A hand gesture. A clone. An imaginary friend.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XVIII

Falling From Grace.

In the afterglow of megalomania, I minded myself a fallen angel. Little did I know, I have fallen beyond that. I mutilated my wings and buried them next to my hopes of redemption, for I have become the embodiment of perdition. I now sit on a throne of bones and broken dreams, even though where I sit now was unattainable some time ago. One September night, I shed off my immortality, and became a mere man that is bound for death after life, waiting for the afterlife. I was waiting to fall into the arms of my maker, naked, drunk, and bruised from fighting life for so long.

When the moment came, I fell; heavy. I fell heavy into the arms of a passerby, that for a moment made it seem like I have met my maker, or breaker. I fell for the complex nature of that certain entanglement. It was the paradox that I wanted to find myself lost in.

In the deepest pits of hell, we swayed ever so gracefully. Like an ocean set in motion, fierce, yet serene. But in the cyclical nature of things, even the most ferocious of storms must come to a halt. Time was judge, jury, and executioner of a short-lived piece of fiction that brought light to a dim year. A timeless masterpiece that went from being days-lived to pages-turned.

Someday, it will become a dusty book sitting on a shelf, but even then, it will always be hell and you.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XXVI-II

Infernal Jest.

As of this moment, I both exist and not in a symbolic state.

I have become nothing, but a claustrophobic cat trapped in a box. The box contained memories of our time together, on both ends of the spectrum. Triggering recollections play a role in which state I will continue to exist in when you open the box. But why open the box when you’ve so clearly written every note we ever were on a cliff that lies dead inside that box?

I slept beside songs that played on a highway that led back home, or that took me the furthest away from the home I called you. When will it end? The torture of reliving every smile and every odd laughter. I brush away the memories whenever they resurface as a piece of media on my phone, or simply as a peace of mind.

I still remember the days we said we’ll fail, and the days we challenged the very notion of failure, but what use do we have of those days now? It is but a recent distant memory that will forever dwell on our skin. But forever is such a long time.

Let it sink in for a moment.

Now take a moment to reflect on a day not so long ago, when the sun was cold, and you put warmth into my heart with little to no effort. All that took was but a simple embrace and a promise that you’d linger in our limbo. But soon enough I was gone and the melancholy that settled was morbid to that promise. We lost a child. We lost time. We lost.

I couldn’t comfort you, nor could I be comfortable in you. You flew, floating in your own domain, far out of reach, and I was left in isolation.

From my stand point, hell seemed far more tolerable, or at least dissolution was. I resorted back to extremities of a passive nature, with no sense of nurture. You drifted ever so effortlessly away from where we stood, and I stood there observing our last throws. I doubted your faith, and you doubted my intentions.

It has been centuries since I last wrote to you, or at least that’s how time moves in your absence. It is done and gone, and that fact is not easy to swallow, alongside pride. But I must thank you for existing, and for simply being in a place of becoming.

Post Script: Be safe in the day, for I see you every night when I leave the box.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XXVI

Subjective Vacancy.

They existed between hell and harmony for the sole purpose of complementing her existence. While the disintegration took parts of his soul into retrograde, the rest was liquefied to make ice for his self-destructive habits to resume. That song played while closure became a part of what they never were.

Insomnia commenced when heartbreak replaced that absence-ache, and like two strings on a guitar, they played together yet eternally parallel.

On another string, the city was irrelevant, time was constant, and she was as beautiful as ever.

He dwelled in that moment by the sea, where the tea was cold, and the night was ever young. She smiled, and his heart was a mess, but she invited herself in either way. She spent a night forgetting what life was before this heart became a home, and he spent it looking for God in the details of her face.

He found love, while he was busy losing everything else.

And just as the devil spends his eternity spreading awareness, he loved her for as long as the devil lived.

His heart was once again taken, until she never returns.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XVII

The Ballad of Jane and John.

I walked in on my life just as it forced my future down on its knees, and I drowned that scene with one bottle too many, for far too long, but she came just in time for me to fit her in my mind.

At some point in our conversations, she would stop to water the flowers that have died in the garden of my heart. She depraved me of my basic right to be insane, all the while she poured drinks for my psychosocial thirst. She was a menace to my sanity.

We danced between sheets of cloth and entranced the moon with moans. For the sake of love, we fell in lust. We reeked of it.

I looked for love between the moles on her back, and found myself in the rolling of her eyes, just as I was strolling back from her wilderness. We put on a show for the stars.

Just as the audience faded in daylight, the music died, and we were again strangers to each other’s flesh. It was but a minor pause of sunbathing until the next song played. We chain smoked the tension of the public and savored every moment of privacy. We were the rebelling youth in a city that sleeps ‘til noon.

“We will always have the nights.” She said to me just before our last dance, with a shade of melancholy, and a hint of vodka on her breath. She had waterproof mascara, else it would have been a scene out of a Film Noir about a female jazz singer in the 50’s. I can never forget the lipstick marks on her highball, and how she liked her alcohol neat even if it was white.

Her exposition was of a certain delight to my ears, that I completely forgot how enchanting she must have been to a passerby.

My sentencing in her presence came to an end, far too soon for my brain to comprehend, and for my heart to have absorbed her essence. We took a bow and walked out of the limelight.

We became a song, that only the brokenhearted knew. For far too long, it played in the bar around the corner, where we sat, apart, yet united at heart.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XVI

I, The Usual.

Under a crimson sky, I saw all my fears manifest from tears that piled around me, blanketing my insecurities, drowning my reason. I sat there for days, where weather changed but the color never faded.

I waited for a sign from above, or below. Out of desperation, I waited for a savior, a personal Jesus that I can blame my failure on his absence and rigidity. But he never came. So, I looked for a Mary in the fog, but ended up finding a Jane.

That Jane was not a savior, but an indulger of my disruptive, psychotic behavior.

I was whole, in my mind, until I fell, to my knees, to punish my flesh.

Until the flesh said “No más.”

I stopped for a moment to gaze upon my reflection in a dirty whisky tumbler, and I saw everything that was wrong with the world, that I stopped the world from spinning, and I drowned my sorrows in another soul.

Souls to withstand your sorrow, are souls that we abandon far too soon, or latch onto for far too long. A momentary satisfaction in the shedding of one’s layers upon another to bear, is but a sin that we commit one too many times. I stood there again, under the crimson sky, waiting for the return of my sanity or the absence of sorrow, and the longer I stood, the more I turned that state of mind into a reflection of reality.

On the shores of a river, I met my maker. Naked, drunk, and alone, I was ready for judgment. He was the river, and I bathed in his grace. No matter how far I’ve traveled, I always ended up there, kneeling for forgiveness, begging for mercy, and repenting for my sins.

Under a crimson sky, I drowned a Jane in God, and watched her wash my sins away, and I walked away unscathed.

Under a ruby sky, I saw all my fears manifest from tears that piled around me, blanketing my insecurities, drowning my reason.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act XV

I, the Endless.

In a tale of a land, there was a little boy who did not fear death, and he was the one who never lived, happily or ever after.

That little boy was scared of nothing but the judgment of his flesh. The judgment that befalls a man who has lived too fast and loved too hard. Soon enough, that boy was a man, and that man was I.

In that land, I lived for enough time to believe that I was at fault. I loved life for all the wrong reasons, but never lived it long enough to see the beauty of discontinuity. Endings make beginnings seem possible, for things that never end, lose value. Just like love. If a man can love endlessly, then his love becomes worthless.

I loved endlessly, except for once. That was the end of me, but the beginning of a whole new chapter of me.

Living a borrowed life, with borrowed time, taught me to accept that some things were never meant to last. Just like life. If life was meant to last, we’d all be immortal. So, aren’t we all living on borrowed time that will eventually come to an end? Just like this journey of mine.

I have come to the realization that life is too short to not compromise, or to live too fast. Boundaries, she created them for me. She painted the image of cats on couches and stoves with baked goodies, and one happy bad boy that belongs somewhere other than troublesome junkyards.

I felt alive.

I felt alive knowing that she exists.

I felt alive knowing that the place I belong to exists.

Beyond my awareness, I felt alive, because there was an ending to all that I believed in before, and the beginning of things anew. And I knew, that she would be the end of me.

The Theater of Unbecoming -Act XIV

Chivalrous Scumbags.

In some context, many have labeled me a villain beyond redemption. Especially those who couldn’t understand the complexity of a human brain at work. You had to lose to win, and a bargain of a win it never was.

Some of those villains had to shed thick layers of emotions in order to become, or to simply fulfill their role in the cycle of evolution. I was one of those. The rejects, the vagabonds, the rebels. You name it, we were it.

In a past tense, we existed there solely to disturb the peaceful, and wake the dead. Not those who’s bones we’ve buried, but those who bury their scars from the outside world. Those who never fully indulged the vicious nature of things. Those who smile too often and seldom cry.

At a time, I was one of those, until I met the paper. I was afraid of how the world would see me if I just shed one tear too many. I learned to bend and reshape my aches into pleasurable reads, or so I’ve been told. I was processing one emotion at a time, until they were put in a blender and served on ice.

Things of a certain nature tend to happen to those who wait for too long, and that I did not do. I ran, blindfolded, into oblivion, that was wide-eyed and slender. I lived that day far too many times, and I still had another sip of that poison when the opportunity presented itself. In a sense, I was just looking for the sweet in the bitter, not the bittersweet.

I made a whole universe that revolved around leaps of the faithless. Without hope, the sanguine tend to get lost in the spectrum of a three-words sentence, and it was a long sentence. Days went by, nights came around, in rounds. The loop was broken the same way it was created, one word too many, and one kiss too often. I still reflect on that moment in time, where time drew what I could never become.

By this time never, I moved on.

The Theater of Unbecoming -Act XIII

7 Shades of Tasteless.

Tolerance is an acquired taste for torture. For the sole purpose of simplifying, it’s a bondage trait.

We aspire for resilience against violent remarks, physical and emotional on multiple levels. The desire to withstand pain for pleasure, but not feel it. Thick skin, and a thicker psyche. But it puts us a mile away from pain, and an arm away from a complete mental breakdown.

At a certain point in life, we seek thrills in the heartbreak, and the roughening of the flesh. That turning point, when a cigarette becomes a multipurpose tool, rather than a simple addiction. We get addicted to the feeling of losing ourselves into someone else’s aching moans, or the silencing of them.

Hand in hand, we undress our deepest fears and place trust in strangers to be tender with our naked souls. Yet, we politely demand vicious pleasures of the flesh. We fall into the swirling pit of bruises and submission that heightens our sense of satisfaction, until we become senseless to sentiments such as roses and kisses. We replace love with hunger, and fear with leather. Piling thousands of unprocessed emotions on top of terrors of what’s formerly known as passion.

We establish a pattern of climaxing only to cliff-dive into the familiar. We test our limits every time we silence those safe word screams, only because we are afraid to disappoint. But isn’t it the exact same reason we submitted into torture for? Being disappointed? High regards of receiving the desired love or the lack of it as it may seem.

The much-needed safety of words unspoken makes the scene as if it’s an abusive medieval waltz for the intellectual. Primitive, yet sophisticated.

After a long span of feeding the physical cravings, the soul demands access to torture. Entré: sensual torment. From misdemeanors to atrocious vices, we expand our borders to welcome the dark lands of forced heartbreak. We begin to seek it as the cornerstone for what will eventually become our ivory tower. We build rooms for each of the abrupted love stories that we depended on to make a castle stand. And the castle stands.

As we cradle clouds in high rooms we began to lose sense of purpose and fall into the ease of the familiar, tolerance.

We started off as fragile spirits seeking love, until we validate our position in the loop of creation. All the while, we begin our descendance back into humanity or the loathing of it, only to be replaced by fragile spirits that sought love a lifetime ago.

Once upon a time, someone undressed my soul.

The Theater of Unbecoming -Act XII

The Power Pole.

Somethings tend to lurk in your mind a lot longer than others. Some tend to dwell while others seem to visit uninvited when you least need them to. Such as your first heartbreak, or your last, or all of those in between.

It was one Sunday morning when I learned that they never seem to leave. It was a lot longer than an unwanted visit. It was a complication followed by a full-on fiesta.

That same Sunday morning I was reminded of why I chose to unravel to papers rather than people. Some people listen, some people advise, but none of them truly understand.

I’ve always thought that we were made to be social beings, but the older I get the more that I realize that we socialize just to get away from ourselves. Minutes and hours away from the round table of all the fuck-ups and the what-ifs. We initiate small talk in order to break layers of thick ice, in order to arrive at our destination; The Strip Club of the Heart. Some people sit and drink, and watch you peel off layers of emotions, while you bleed to the music, and they drink it all in. I was one of those people, until I was called to the stage.

Curtains up. Lights on. It’s showtime.

I stood there frightened by the idea of showing too much heart. A thought in a gown of flesh. It wasn’t long before I started bleeding more often, to fans, friends, even to strangers. Through a paragraph, or a line. The paper was my stage, and the pen was my song, and I took it all off.

Soon enough, I would take the tube home, and watch all these creatures pass the time away. Some would read, while others, maintained conversation. I observed, like an angel in a whorehouse, I took names.

As if I was put on a loop, I would bleed, take the train, observe, lather, rinse, repeat. It has become tiresome to maintain the facade of the bleeder when your veins are drying up.

That Sunday morning, I hung up my bleeding shoes.

The Theater of Unbecoming -Act XI

In the ruins of Man.

Ever watched the burning of a weighted cord that holds the world together from the corner of a sofa?

The thrill of watching a foreign movie with no subtitles, that is being rehearsed right in front of you, with fists flying and people fuming over a snotty drunken cunt that said one cuss too many. It is that moment when the night wakes up and you go to sleep, on the first and “where the hell was I for that” avenue, right across from “pass me that bottle” café.

Nights get darker, and the wind gets colder as you’re tottering on the way home. But then the bed is warm and lonely, while the toilet never seemed more hug-able. You fall to your knees in a prayer to the Rock’n’Roll gods to spare you the humiliation of someone walking in on you regretting doing that last bit of awesome and drinking some of that liquid courage. They listen, and your calls are answered with reddened eyes and an imbalanced walk back to the corner of that sofa.

For a moment there, you realize that you are not home, and this is not the sofa, but a cloud carrying your soul out of your body. You fasten your seatbelt with another drink and watch out for low-hanging signs. When you arrive, the cloud disappears, and you arrive at a familiar place, HeartBreak Hotel at 5th and “it’s been a while.”

Did you believe for a moment that you weren’t going to end up here? Dancing with the best of them and watching o’er the enchanted make their booking for the night. Some of them were checking in for the first time, and some were regulars like you. But what are you if not a wanderer? If not a regular of these hotels, where the glass never dries, and the music never dies.

The surroundings were never what you cared about, but the internal struggle was different this time, you played the “Should I stay, or Should I rock the Casbah?” for too long that you had to change the act last night. So, it was more of a Hamlet monologue, rather than the usual Rocker Fuckery.

You walk by the sea, just to see if it still scares you, but you forget to remember to forget about your fear and stand there for a moment to watch the might of the night drill inside your head to take you further into the pit of terror.

So, next time you play Rockstar, make sure you have a good band manager to spare you the heartache of the next morning.

Yours truly,

Mr. Bad Example

#letterfromthedead #deadandtalking #badhabits #elsalty

The Theater of Unbecoming -Act X

Carnal Depression.

Sometimes, space is measured in time. Especially this time, in daytime.

With the first breeze of winter, I was reminded of a place in time, where the wind blew our differences away.

We deviated into eccentric tantrums as if in a trance. It was a combative waltz composed by mine truly. Impotent relatability justified emotional disability with the stench of a coercive behavioral negativity. We broke what we could restore, to mend what was modified to remain intact. Behavioral patterns alternated between passive aggressive and aggressively passive. Recollections of a madman that first sparked his lunacy.

Irrational rationalizations drove realizations to become amplified manifestations of a primitive mentality, also known as generalizations. When the pallet became of a binary nature, in resemblance to the stories of saints and sinners. Sparing details about the fluidity of human morality, situational faith, and empirical evidence of retrospective liberality. I became a sinister patron.

As a result of my hindsight, I bet on the passing of a Reef knot through the eye of the needle. My modernity in its broad perspective was but a fundamental misconception that translated to my apathy towards being forced to accept reality. So, I escaped to you, my reverie.

The Theater of Unbecoming -Act IX

Psy-Plate Displacement.

The clock is ticking. As if I’m awaiting salvation by elimination. I’m still standing in the corner smoking my awkward cigarette and judging those who do not smoke. Watching them dance and kiss. Observant of a species in their natural habitat, in mating season.

I pour myself another drink to enhance my tolerance towards people. My state is changing, like shifting tides, I swiftly transform into those whom I earlier observed. I danced as if the planet has emptied out of people, for me to dance. I was alone on that dance floor, with stars orbiting my feet and black holes in my chest.

I couldn’t tell the time, or the place. I was on the corner of 11th and gone. A stateless mind in a mindless state, but what a taste. When you feel the pulsing of your faint emotions in your fingertips, and melt with every sip of your drink. Drop by drop, and cell by cell, you become the very cause of your intoxication.

Your hands become feather-light, and your head; heavy. You fall back on a cushion of childhood memories. You rest your head on days of joy, and grapple your blanket of sad-days tighter. You remember fatherly advice, and motherly love. Numbness travels through your spine and you fall deeper in a pit of melancholy, where daylight dies, and you are but a helpless child, on a hospital bed.

Soon, that trance came to an end, and I returned to my empire of dirt. Layers of emotions peeled in a single night. The kisses that sunk in me, and the faces that will never fade into oblivion. I regained my ability to tell dreams from reality, and I was still in a dream. A dream called reality. Where I had no control over the outcome, nor had I reached the state of dominance. I was, yet again, floating in the interstate of mind.

I awoke to the sound of the clock ticking, and realized that I had never left that corner. I became a subordinate to my insecurities, and two left feet. I stood in the corner, repeatedly watching the night. The same night I recalled every bad memory I ever had. I stood there with my broken-self, watching my stuck clock tick the time away. As they say, even a broken clock is right twice a day, but when it was right, I had nothing left. A saccadic masking of my emotional transposition.

The Theater of Unbecoming – Act VIII

Waves of consciousness.

Many a question came to my mind as I drifted away from my comfort zone.

Some of a quizzical nature, while the rest dropped me in mental acids that disintegrated every particle in my being. I became a drop in an ocean. I was puzzled by the nature of lucid dreams and the surges of reality that came like commercial breaks in your favorite cartoon.

When one became another and all came together, I was the only one lost. I was swimming through the fluids of my mind. Backstrokes to Breaststroke, I was freestyling with blue whales and aggressive dolphins.

Some centuries later, I was ashore. I managed to recollect what one dolphin said to me as we took a dive to my cerebrum. “We are the shameless component in this sinful device.” She said as we synchronized, her and I. Her explanation of existence and purpose shed a light on her nature, and a resemblance to a certain soul that I had the pleasure of waltzing with.

I concluded that I am but a subconscious reflection of a thought. A mirroring of a notion in motion. I was an idea that wasn’t my own. I was a cumulation of knowledge agglutinated by experience and emotions. I was the million in one, and the one after a million. I suffered from insignificance within my flesh. How can one be of significance while one is but a drop in the ocean of one’s self?

How can one fathom the truth of being no one?

All of me escaped, one by one. Until we fell into each other, with a million screams. In a pit of cold rocks and whisky, I awoke anew. It came in waves, the falling back in place. While the sun danced and the moon sat on my shoulder, I was born again, only a minute older but with an eternity of foolishness to alter.

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act VII

Blue and Black.

How do we approach eternity?

Strolling through the gates of misanthropy and agony.

We drift slowly into the unknown as if we were walking home, with whales on our shoulders and black dogs holding the leash.

As if infinity has become ever so finite. While the simple has grown into a paradox.

We quizzically examine the hypothesis of living throughout drawing multiple breathes for periods of time, uninterrupted.

Until one moment, an interruption reeps what we have sown for the years past, and the plans of a future that is never to become.

Our consciousness shattered into limitless fragments, as are we.

Into the fabric of our macrocosm, we stitch our insignificant achievements that amount to our failures in becoming macro.

All that we have ever craved, or sought, is but dust on shelves of ordinally sorted dreams. Vigils of hope.

The pages we never wrote, the memories we never made, and the laughs we never shared, are all but's and if's that "Never" seems to address properly.

Never, is a word best suitable for regret, yet we authorized its actuality in our cognitive process.

We'd prefer cyclical torment, to obtuse pleasure.

Gratification of solicitation, instantly expected, else atrociously dismissed.

Gruelling convictions to try stoic souls.

Now, does the loft of eternity still seem sublime?

The Theater of Unbecoming- Act VI

Abstract Daze.

Here I am again, offloading my lonesome thoughts to you in a moment of skepticism.

It is words of a lovelorn soul, that has long aborted hope. An angry soul.

How does your river flow? Can your river ever withstand a storm? Or are you the storm?

Come to my ocean, dear little river. Bathe in me.

Straddle my stream, the route to my heart.

Gaze upon my waves as they crash against the shores I once called home.

Plunge into my darkness.

Let faith give you sight into the unseen. Be my witness.

Can you explain what you see? Is it more than a multidimensional, non-comprehensible, absolutely ridiculous little crack?

A micro-gate to an insignificant soul stretched against a canvas that is the universe.

To which it holds such resemblance. The macrocosm that is your eyes, my friend.

The fabricated existence of such a vast domain in which you dwell. You’re not of this world.

Stay for a drink in the bleakness of my depths, I will make it worth your while.

I would unravel to you like a bedtime story, while you caress my pages.

The chapters that you can rewrite are the ones that matter most.

Would you want them rewritten? Or would you settle for fragments of a heart?

Would you liquify the melancholy that obstructed reality?

The reality that I have grown to loathe, has become an unattainable daydream.

In reveries, I’ve been informed of truths that sobriety never offered.

But how can I stay sober when I’ve been drunk on faith for far too long?

I have been blinded by light, and now that I’ve unfolded the blinds, I see clear. I see black.

So shall I reveal more of the ocean or would you rather stay in your gentle watercourse?

Set your course.

#salty #dark #thoughts

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