PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
shark vs the universe
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@wrapthenightaroundyourshoulders
“When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
Death, a traitorous kiss. by Katfantastic.
Winter brought the death of the poplar and the oak, leaves strewn across the bed of this forest, barren. I tried to wrap myself in memories to keep warm, but I ended up just slipping on envy hidden beneath black ice.
Poetry had been a ship, emotions an island, and each traversing word set course through tumultuous waves of thought. I was never a poet, but a sailor alone, with a heart filled with feelings and a mind unsure of each one.
I take another drag. One more. Another. Just a sec, I'm almost done. The clock is silent. Digital. No ticking. Every minute that passes is another minute I'm in pain. Why? I can't say. It's a long night. A quiet night. The type of night you find yourself losing yourself. If only that one drag didn't take every fiber of my being to inhale. I wish it helped. It's not like I know what to say. I see your face, and I'm as lost as you are. What's wrong? Are you alright? Am I? Tasting tears makes it worse. Please don't cry. I plead with myself. Not you, because I know you are hurting inside and I can't stifle the pain. At least I can convince myself it isn't so bad. Nothing is wrong. The clock continues to change, with a face that doesn't make sense. Says its only been a few moments, but lifetimes have passed. I've grown, been broken, dissolved. I'm reforming, reconstructing. Made anew. Please don't cry.
Been a while.
I haven't written much because as terrible as it sounds, I haven't had much to write about. Far from the old days where we'd stumble around drunk on weekends and stay up all night during the week, drinking coffee at the diner, I've fallen into a slump. Lets be honest - as you get older, it's harder to meet people. I moved to California without knowing anyone here, and in all this time, I've met three people. Two of the people turned out to be idiots and I stopped talking with them, but one ended up moving in with us. She's a great room mate, ngl.
Anyway, so life has been rather boring for me and I don't know if there's much to add to this. My husband is away half the time for work, and my brother in law just moved out to go live with his coworkers. I'm sure he did it to get laid, but whatever. No use trying to talk a kid out of stupid decisions; they'll always think they're right. Yeah, so, I'm feeling the slump, and with it comes loneliness and inadequacy, like I've missed something. Am I missing something? Maybe something is missing me.
I'm also a terrible daughter. I never call my family, nor do I want to keep up with them regularly. I mean, I love them, but when we chat, I feel like a disappointment. No new news, no change in my life to share. I'm just a broken record, repeating the same bullshit. It's depressing, ngl. I'm sure they expected more from their oldest child than quiet, meaningless answers like 'Yeah, I'm fine.' I'm not fine, I'm bored. So fucking bored. I hate it and it's pathetic that I haven't dealt with it yet.
QQ. Lots of QQ.
Naive // The Kooks
Book Progress - ch. 1 map
Chapter One - The Funeral
Map out; Caesar Hernandez, a 24 year old bookstore attendant, reflects on the funeral of a coworker who had committed suicide.
- Driving through neighborhood just outside boston, takes a stop to get cigarettes, hears talk of the funeral from the gas station attendant.
- Gets into an argument with said attendant, leaves to finally head home.
- Is reminded of similar incident years before that sparks the strange affliction within Caesar.
future plot
Who; Young male between the ages of 20-26.
- Hispanic/italian
- Dark hair, tanned, dark eyes
- 5’7” to 5’9”
What; A suicide that doesn’t have anything to do with him effects him.
- A neighbor?
- Someone at his work?
- Someone at his school?
Where; Big city like Boston, New York or Providence. East coast.
When; Modern day, over the course of a year or so.
Why; This one suicide brings to light a death years before that the main character had never gotten over, and he quickly becomes obsessed with death and dying. His life becomes focused on watching people die, like doctor Kavorkian without the drugs, he simply observes people taking their own lives in the various and strange ways. Eventually caught at the scene of one of these suicides, he explains to the police what he’s been doing and is placed in a psychiatric institute for evaluation.
I'm not 13 anymore.
There wasn't anyone to tell us it was wrong.
In a society full of perverts and politicians, no one really knew the difference between right and wrong anymore. When asked if you would kill someone, it was usually assumed the question was about self-defense or revenge or something of that nature. But what if there were no context and the question was simply ‘in a kill or be killed situation, would you live or die?’ and you had to give an answer off of that? I always ended up saying I would die; lack of information, maybe. Maybe I’m just a coward who wasn’t able to commit to mulling over the idea of murder. No self-defense reasoning to fall back on, no real protective nature to take over – just the fact I, as a person, could not do such a thing. I’m passive. It’s in my character sheet if there was one, written down like some sort of anecdote to my life: Does not have it in them to kill, to fight, to succeed. See back of sheet for save rolls.
I don’t think I was born a writer. I don’t know if it can be learned either; I just willed it so. Woke up one day with a piece of shit spiral notepad full of old doodles and classwork, and I just started writing. Nothing special, or even interesting, just these Anne Rice knock off stories about a house full of Vampires and how they all fucked, all the time. I was 13, and to me, this was the epitome of perfection. We didn’t have Twilight to memorize and fantasize over, just good ol’ Lestat and those paper back Anita Blake books that went from a story on how badass a hard to get chick could be to the tale of a slutty furry fucker. Yeah, we had it hard when it came to what we wanted, and as a teenager in the great emo movement, I aspired to be dark and broody in ways no one could hope to stomach. I wanted to tell dead baby jokes and be witty and cynical. I wanted to read Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and watch Invader Zim nonstop. I wanted my music to pump and thunder, to rape the walls and echo like the moans of dirty women in dark, desolate alleys.
I bet everything I ate tasted like cigarette ash and black coffee.
I picked up smoking because my friends did. My father was and is a smoker as well, meaning there were always available packs to pilfer from. Born a thief, I could knick one of those Newport boxes from the carton he kept in the fridge without anyone the wiser, but I had to do it when he was down to 5 or 6, because that’s when the box looked relatively the same regardless the loss of one precious package. My dad would catch me every several months and give me the lecture, that knowing talk about how terrible a decision it had been for him to smoke, and if I did it, I’d live a terrible life as well. Only more flowery, more open; like the chronicles of an Emphysema patient on their deathbed. Apparently I was as much a bastard then as I am now, and didn’t take his word for it. I’ll say it now, because I might as well. I never should have started, and my idiot friends are still idiots.
I never could look at myself in the mirror without feeling like I wasn’t good enough, but even now, I wasn’t sure for whom. Was I afraid of the rejection others were notorious for dishing out, or was it my own sort of self-hate that made me feel insignificant? The world always makes you feel like you need to be a carbon copy, but the older I get, the more obvious it is I don’t want to look like them. Movie stars, sex symbols, models and millionaires – None of them were me. Not really. I could see our eye colors matching occasionally, or our pigment being close to similar, but not quite the same. I could see their hair resembling mine, only tamed and tapered and downsized to shine like polished wood. I could hear them speak with their perfect enunciation, despite whatever accent they had once harbored. I didn’t belong in that sort of place, that deep hole full of the cookie cutter ginger bread girls and their glittering diamond boy toys and sugar daddies. I didn’t need the weight such public responsibility carried.
I just needed to wake up after 14 hours of heavy sleeping.
So was my life, sleeping and dreaming and writing small blurbs and tangents about Vampire fucking and a house full of skinny, perfect undead with hardly anything troubling to them. That was it. Being 13 was a time when I had all the free hours in the world outside of school, yet always seemed to fill them with depressed rambling and arguments with my parents. I thought I was cool, like those stupid imposter punks on MTV, all glammed up in their faux rebellion; slick with grease and sweat in their videos, yet flawless on the red carpet. How very rebellious to the innocent teenage mind it must have seemed, with suggestive lyrics and booming but catchy sounds – sucked dry by the lack of interest some two or so years later. Bands were like stars; they died off long before anyone realized they were gone, and those imprints and images left on the TV and Internet are all that remain for the true followers. I hate fans of almost everything.
Sometimes I’d sit vacantly staring off at the wall, trying to visualize something greater then society as I saw it. Paper thin people and judgmental tabloids and get out scotch free presidents and popular demand for blame to be impressed on just one person. Everyone loves a good scapegoat, and it’s always someone in power; when shit hits the fan, the crowd rears up to strike down whatever authoritative presence is available because no one can personally be accountable. The world is boring. I knew that much the minute my thoughts drifted from cute boys at school to whether or not I even liked people. I knew things weren’t supposed to be so linear – and life wasn’t just a path you strolled down. Maybe if someone had verbalized this to my malleable consciousness, I’d have chosen to pay better attention school, vice smoking pot during the class periods I skipped. Maybe if I knew I’d have to create myself when I had cracked that candy coating shell of High School, I wouldn’t be here writing bits and pieces about it.
Maybe I’d be that blood sucking motivational speaker who urges you to buy their book. Perhaps I’d have traveled to foreign shores to work with the defenseless brown natives, building hospitals and chain restaurants so they could be considered civilized. The checkered flags would swoosh by and I’d be racing the clock and my maternal instincts in hopes of becoming another content parent with brat kids and a non-stop Cartoon Network slideshow on my TV. Maybe I’d still dream like I used to, where I’d wake up sweating and gasping and clutching sheets and linens in hopes of not toppling from whatever disjointed structure I found myself on. I ask a lot of questions in concern to what could have been, but I rarely find myself wondering what I should do now.
Obviously not drugs, though if I did, I doubt much would change. I could whore myself out and just wait to be the next newly christened slut in the armies of the amateur porn militia. Would I do well if I told people about how mundane life really was, in between reading their reblogs of sitcom screen shots and shitty textual tidbits about how much they love so and so? They’ll love again when that person is gone, and again after the next one – on and on until they are locked in the ties of a fruitless, unending marriage… Or until they die. I wish I had hundreds of partners, if only to keep up a new conversation every night, instead of hearing those rambling after thoughts at the end of the day that involved the same dialogue the last six months. ‘How was your day?’ And they answer with ‘It was alright. I’m tired.’ And I nod and ask ‘What do you feel like for dinner?’ And they just shrug.
‘I don’t know.’
Well, isn’t that the answer that is best suited to explain everything. The most commonly given quip from those less than knowledgeable folks who sit idly at the computer chatting with thousands of people they’ve never met before and probably never will. When asked what was wrong, they could throw it out and leave none the wiser, though even that seems a tad obvious. We all know you know, and saying otherwise doesn’t really do anyone any good. I’ve given up on caring though. Who really bothers when it comes to the internet? If someone shows up with their bad attitude and their need for attention, it’s better to ship them off elsewhere then to sit and filter through the bullshit to find that core of information. The treasure trove of personal pain - I wish I had something like this for when people asked me what was wrong, but the best I can manage is ‘PMS’ or ‘Headache.’ Things that bother me, but not enough to send me to the corner in a crippled mess of emotions and anguish.
Besides, I’m not 13 anymore.
Sometimes there's this feeling inside that makes me wish I couldn't feel at all. No reason, just a weird and throbbing pain in my soul. Emotions are such bullshit.
I often carry things to read so that I will not have to look at the people.
Charles Bukowski (via bloodisthenewblackk)
Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom. Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power. If you realize that you have enough, you are truly rich. If you stay in the center and embrace death with your whole heart, you will endure forever.
Tao Te Ching, No. 33 (translated by Stephen Mitchell)
