i've got to find a way nowhere.

god, i just wanna take my eyes out.  you know, you drive me absolutely fucking crazy. 

the difference between me and you is that you believe things, you anoint them in your way, as if important, or true.  they're neither!  but i love you madly anyway, even if repugnant about the entire affair!

i am mad.  i long to be entangled with someone, but at the same time, i am often casually entangled.  it's just that i've become a sloth.  if i bothered to move once in a while, maybe.  maybe things'd be different.  i need to lose about a million pounds, and learn to move my lips a little better.  a lot better. ella ha escrito.

tu amas.  no soy la dama quien tu tienes la amor.  i often think what you do is make people believe things about themselves, things that hardly leave them, and only make them continue to itch.  you make her believe it is her fault, that she is not quite independent, or free. you are neither, my friend!  who is?  who is when you adhere to some sort of canny philosophy, some dictum that tells you to read, breathe, fuck, pretend, make picture shows, be somebody.  you sicken me, muchacho.  one day i will be wearing something very rustic and dark, and you'll find my shadow rolling around a corner, and then you'll find your stare one on one with mine, except you'll be met with a certain  lucidity there in the eyes, like dark water.  there'll be a glimmer there, like that undulating light poised above water, a light capturing absence in a gleam.  it will give you a very definite yet unnamed feeling.

i am moving through, and i realize, all those times, laying close to the ground, or buried beneath quilts, longing just to cease, i know now, it is not that i desire death, nor that i am even truly sad, drinking from my sedating cocktail, and perhaps this is why now i am not so sad my mother's dead and gone, as she has not got these things to worry about or to bog her down so heavily. it's that i want not to be seen, not even in my own scope, not to have this lump of body, obstructing and intruding on my view and my way; it obstructs the clarity of seeing what's around me, you see, if i am distracted by myself, and by my sadness, and my demands.  i marvel at those of you who are thin and racy, like bones moving between pages; you're so thin like a waif, it's almost as if you're barely here, and i envy it, though i know i could never manage to wither down to that size, for let's face it, i'm far too indulgent.  i see it though, the less you partake, the less you're feeding yourself, the less you're giving to yourself, the less of you that's actually here, the least that's vulnerable, the less open to being swindled by those who'd have you believe that there's something that can stand in your stead, an idea that can replace you, embody your life, like some memento, and the less of yourself here the less opportunity to be suddenly swept into something like love that captures yourself entirely, something that makes you want to stay in one way forever, when both things are substitutes, just objects for a changing mind, merely momentary. 

and i remember when i did nothing, literally, because i relished so the feeling of absence, of not having to do anything because what was doing something anyway, and what was it to do, instead of just being, and i didn't sleep for days and i ate almost nothing, and though those were painful days when you know there is also some grain of pleasure in doing that, some backward dignity, something you can say you did for yourself, or to do away with yourself, whichever, they're the same, to secret something of yourself away, for a time, until someone comes along and forces you to wake up from that stupor, to show yourself and give yourself and open yourself to everything else, and forget what you saw when nothing, no one was around, not even you, only a shadow of your eyes.

i know i'll have a nice life, but i won't write anything of substance, and i won't feel anything earth-shaking, not anymore, not with what's happened. nothing surprises me.  my two uncles died this year, as did my mother, almost all without warning, my mother the youngest, though all three in their fifties. 2 weeks ago another uncle of mine was suddenly diagnosed with a very rare auto-immune disease. it's him attacking himself.  funny, it's not much different here. 

i guess you've got to to be truly free, to truly separate yourself from it all.  it's a painful division, taking the headlines out of your head, to separate notions from the 'will-not-be.'  it's not easy. you've got to, but it's not easy.