The Black Battle

Been a fucked up week, man. Just weird. Weird shit. All up in my head. The itty bitty shitty committee. Restless, irritable and discontent. No real reason. No good reason anyway. My mom was in town this weekend...(for fucking example as I'm trying to write this blog my computer keeps freezing up on me...little shit like that)...but ANYWAY...what was I saying??? Oh yeah...restless, irritable and discontent...Some days everything clicks, other days it doesn't...some days it feels like a fucking struggle.

Illusions. Delusions. Consciousness. Seeing my mother just broke my heart again into a million tiny pieces. The pain of loss. Real-life heavy duty stuff. My dead father (and my fist wanting to punch through the screen of this fucking laptop as it keeps freezing up on me...) Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I am doing...where am I? Who am I? What the fuck is this or that? How'd I get here?

There are moments when I feel just like the little boy I used to be, wondrous,

full of awe, joy, hope, optimism…all that good shit. Then there are other times, dark times, times when I feel BLACK. I swear on my life I could kill a man. I know I could. I could snuff the life right out of that sumbitch. Feel his life draining away from him, watch the eyes flutter, wide in disbelief, piercing with fear…then grow cold and distant…dead, lifeless. Feel the muscles spasm one last time before the body goes limp and the life evaporates before my eyes. And the nightmare that I am now a murderer begins. The burden of that life I’ve stolen from the world weighing down upon me. There have been times when I’ve woken from dreams and wondered if perhaps at some point in my life I really DID kill someone and just blacked it out, just pushed it into the furthest reaches of my consciousness…a terrible secret I’m saving for Judgment Day.

I think of my father all the time, mostly fond thoughts and memories but seeing my mother this weekend brought darker things…the memory of the night he passed, the vision of his dead body swaddled in white linen, the days, weeks and months leading up to his death when his mind began it’s journey into the next realm and the body just needed to catch up. He’s pushed his way past us now, headed fearlessly into the unknown. He always told me I was far more brave and courageous than he ever thought about being. I never believed him. I’ve been wild, careless, reckless. He’s the one who is brave. he is the courageous one. I’m still that boy from King Street, still kicking my tennis shoes in the dirt and throwing rocks against metal signs just to hear the “ping.” I’m visceral, romantic, brooding, sensual. Let something go my way and count the minutes till I figure out a way to fuck it up. Won’t let myself rest or be content for more than a few moments, push push push…never stop, never slow down, never give in, never give up. Even when the thing I’m looking for has been found, when the great discovery has been made, when the seas have been crossed and the peak summited….even then I won’t feel the joy of victory or release of accomplishment. It’s just how I’ve always been. I’ve tried to find peace with it but even that eludes me. I won’t even let myself accept the fact that I can’t accept things. I need drama, mystery, the unknown. I need something to fight for, someone to fight with. I need a battle, an enemy. I need villains and foes. And the best villain I’ve ever come across, the fiercest competitor, the most worthy combatant has always been myself. Cause myself will never give in, never give up, never call time out. I won’t accept defeat not will I claim victory. I’ll fight just to fight. I’ll go round after round and the joy will not be in the raising of my hand at the end, not in the applause and kudos of the galley. The joy will be in the blows themselves, the PAIN, the bruises, the scars. I’ll finger them later. I’ll covet ever scratch and claw mark. I’ll relive each moment from the wounds I proudly wear on my flesh. I’ll gaze childlike at the greenish purple bruises that blossom into black. I’ll relish the ache and weary tenderness of my muscles after a good bout. My eyes will become steely and glazed over when I muse of the next go. My heart will quicken, my fists will clench, my jaw will tighten. I’ll call to my opponent to rise. I’ll lock eyes with him. My conscious self will disappear into the ether as I engage…sweet release and escape.