The Console

I am exhausted. I haven't been sleeping well. Not sure if it's the change here in balmy ol' Houston's weather from bearable to not-so-bearable, or if it's something much more insidious. When I consider all of the changes that have wrought blood from this life of mine in the last months, or even years for that matter, I suppose it should come as no surprise to recognize that this world of my own design should exact a heavy psychic toll. It has.

So, tumbling through nights that threaten in as much as they replenish is an almost certainty were I to stand back and play all objective and shit.

Tonight is my night to have the kids. They are sleeping in the other room, I just checked on them and they are down. What is it about watching children sleep that is so heart wrenching for me? I covered my daughter as she had rolled out from under her blanket, and then I stood there for a few and just watched her in her godlike beauty. I saw her walk today for the first time. It's odd seeing her upright and in motion. She is clearly proud of herself, and her pride could only be matched by my own.

My anger has been a near constant companion lately, and again, without getting psychoanalytical, I will say that there are numerous obvious reasons for this. Unfortunately, none of them are easily dealt with.

If you were to take the world through which I am wont to pass, and spread the various elements of it from end to end, you would be left with the image of a puzzle with many missing pieces. You might even find pieces from other puzzles mixed in from somewhere unknown. Nice, no?

Who knows me? Who knows anything about me? What of me doesn't serve you, and what of me is of me alone? Anything? Because I wonder. I do. I wonder if I am not here as little more than an oddity kept around in order to amuse. How fucking cruel a joke would that be? What if I was right about that, and what if illuminating it did nothing to remedy the situation? What if requesting release was simply a conceit that sent the gallery scrambling for their footing amid the riotous laughs that rippled through their ranks?

I don't know if you know this or not, but I see myself as being unpredictable in a way that contains nothing sexy about itself. Is there nothing there of me that leaves me cutting paths that remain passable for longer than it takes for me to move through and not a moment more?

Is my unbearably intense internal discomfort as obvious as I think it is, or do I read like some over reactive child, too self-absorbed to see a world outside of my own? Fuck, I just thought we all operated that way. Maybe I'm wrong.

My door opens into an alien environment. Always felt that way from day one. It took years to shake the ineffable quality of being separate from the rest of the world I passed through, on my way to where? Am I going anywhere? I must be going somewhere because I feel so lost. You can find yourself as being lost when you have nowhere to go. You lose your way, can't find the path. Stumble around in the dark.

I don't mean to sound so maudlin.

I want to tell you all about it. I want you to sit down and become absorbed in the way the car holds the road, takes turns, and does its very own thing its very own way. I can go, god knows I can. I can take the money and run like a man possessed. And is there a single person out there, a single one who can honestly take the credit for listening? Seriously. Can anyone claim the mantle of being the solitary member of the I-listen-club, because I ain't seein' it if they are.

Maybe I shouldn't have expectations. Maybe I should model myself on the paeans to heroic being that stipple the histories of man like minute handsful of luminous creatures scooped from the dark waters at night. Maybe I should take a ticket and stand in the line of those who adhere to the doctrines and dialogues of the majestic few who have divined the holiest wheat from the chaff. I can't though, because I have to call bullshit on that whole tale anyway. That shit is truly for the birds, all that saving us from ourselves garbage, and all that showing us the true path crap. That shit is for the birds. That shit is for the weak, because in the transparent comfort of myopia does one see whatever it is they want to see without actually having eyes of their own.

Nah, fuck that.

I am just laid out here, typing out a clicking treatise on the mountainous heaps of arrogant stupidity that flows out from these fingers into the electronic ether to wallow and rot and ultimately find itself swarmed in the larvae of scavenging insects.

Here is a man that runs through windows, blindfolded. This is a man with the power to destroy entire lives by merely being honest. This is a man who has crafted reams of evidence to support the claims of the council on the effects of being too sensitive in a world that chastises one for feeling anything that isn't directly connected to burying women with your undeniable virility or reducing those around you to something less than human in order to take your cock out and dip it into wells of cash, without end, because to do these things is tantamount to being a success.

Welcome. Welcome to the truth.

You may now return to your rapes and your petty vindictiveness and your hyperactive stupidity and your one-sided romp through the fields of innocence, only to come out the other side bloodied but unbowed.

Who do I hate more, myself or you?

At the end of the day, that is the question that keeps me up, leaves me exhausted, and sends me into tomorrow, no less hip to the solution out of this mess and into the into, and into this life.

Try me.

I will sleep. You? You never rest.

Guess why.