Plankton

2-15-09

No matter what the mix of medication I'm given I can't keep my heart from pumping love for that promise. For my lifesblood to be teeming for another one of life's broken promises, for rich or for poor, in sickness and in health, turns my humors into acid, disintegrating what is left of that magical kingdom built on faith in that promise you gave. My ramparts burst, were demolished, symmetrically collapsed when that promise was made into a lie. Witnessing such a clean demolition followed by a cold, clinical, wordless escape left me wondering around fallout thinking that this had to be a professional job. I have just started to take into account your perspective and I annihilate any emotion I can conjure up that would be resent related. I can't recriminate myself. I seek no exoneration. I know myself well enough to declaratively state that forsaking all others applies to myself and how I treat myself from here on out. I find that promises hold nothing but a lot of pork. Bien fait
Be grateful you didn't stick around to be in the forefront of these fresh battles clad with solecisms over all past transgressions. I am waging war on myself. And I battle myself continuously throughout my days. Most of them end in stalemates, the days that is. This fallout is gruesome and instead of shrapnel the air is fogged by skin and bone and flesh and blood. Sob born tears are baptized by echos of how I need another chance, how I am not done loving you yet, in my cell here. Still no words from the North. These cries fall with the weight which you might quantify guilt to have and hit the ground with a dull thud. What remains is a misty cloud of crimson spraying down and around. In a moment, blink, all the bones were removed from my body, fait accompli. This pool that remains lost its grip on an illusion, swiftly withdrawn, and began to sink deeper and deeper into the pit of catatonia, tomb silence, tomb darkness, and tomb sleep. At one time I declared I was born for something, that I was born to be with you, womb to tomb. Now I make every one of your senses revolt. This is a reality neither of us would approve of.
Life isn't always what you make it. Sometimes life makes you. This is something I learn each day in the tedium of this institutionalized living. A lot of these men are so processed that they are beyond repair. I can see how having a revolving door experience with trauma and the struggle to survive it can lead people to develop deadly routines. All these small vignettes filled with anguish and strange, frightening, ambiguous, palgues and malignancies brought about by critical exigencies helped us to create our coping skills, whether they are healthy or not, float around like plankton. We are microscopic as far as the big picture, as are our mechanisms that allow us the smallest space to function in. Some just do it better in handcuffs I guess.
I'll maneuver my way through this fog. The light at the end of a tunnel may not be you. It may be an oncoming train. I refuse to continue to be a perpetually flowering monstrosity, though.


The present-

I'm still shaken and hang-dog from all that both me and my better half endured. I figure the conditions are mutual. Still, for some reason I cannot shake the attachment for the that half. I feel like a subject that is fodder for the parvenu. I've prayed for castration of my soul/heart from this love in order to extirpate it. Those roots go so deep. I don't think that anything will grow in this soil anymore, no matter how much I till it. It may not be fertile ever again. I did not want this life and if I had an ounce of making it certain ways I would be finishing off a Red Robin dinner, then making love, taking a shower, then going to bed to go to work for the state of Texas the next day. What was fallible was so much bigger than making some wrong choice like too many scotch and sodas.

Still, across the length and breath of my being are these isolated explosions, traceries of fire, pinpoints of fire, great cavities, and narrowed channels plowed by pain, exploded in me, vomited forth from my heart. When I charred everything I was stripped down to an inchoate creature, a freak of the universe, a thinking animal that's just trying to see its way clear through this morass.

Am I an irrefutable anathema?
A plighted heart that perpetually agonizes and twists up a storm in my chest all for the priceless casualties?
The threads of my faith were once steel. Now my song is silenced.
This is more than some diatribe soaked in smarm and written with florid words pirouetting in well choreographed sentences. I could never be wanton if I'm honest with myself. Maybe this is just part of the process. Do we Kubler Ross everything until it is sand?