clean living

Into My Soul by Ikarus

Splotches of reality. My finger in one of those pulse takes. I lay inclined on the gurney. Blood covered the bib resting on top of my chest. Still in my clothes...I think...

My dad yelled at my eyes, his jaw muscles clenching as he looked away. A doctor or nurse with an allergen mask wove stitches into my face. A bright surgical LED formed suns in my irises. No pain, just the taste of blood.

I woke up in my bed, I knew it was my bed. I couldn't open my eyes. My head sloshed about memories and thoughts and occurrences. My whole body felt sore and tingly. It was like I left and came back to a mess. I tried to stretch but the body wasn't done with rest. I knew I had to incubate. Oh privileged silence and dark.

My mind doesn't want to catch up. Too many amends. I want a cigarette. Do I still have any friends? Do I deserve to? Am I my friend? What am I again?

What's an unrecognized mistake? Part of the pattern, part of the cycle, the misery, the company.

The air's dry but my throats fresh so the cigarette doesn't burn that much. Desert flowers sprout cross the front lawns of arid suburbia. My brain hasn't finished reconnecting yet and it's been three days...
I've turned to nicotine to rubberband the synapses.

What am I worth? What motivation fuels this cycle? I was saved. I didn't feel the true pain. I didn't wake up in the hospital... but I still carried the weight of my subconscious. I guess that's why there's death.

I submerged in the pain and woke in the comfort of rest. Where is consequence? What's the worst I can be? What is my worth? Why not try to be better? What is better? What is an example?

Antidepressants...Self Help Books... tutorials...education...edu..... people.................

Wheres the conversation? Whose talking to me? I remain in seclusion like it's the solution. I think people want me to be here. So I'm here... and can't keep from thinking how can I love when I don't know how to communicate what I feel? How can I evolve my emotional intelligence? Maybe drink less and listen more.

Do I want to act like you?

Maybe I do. Maybe I don't want to act... maybe I just want to live quietly by the sea. Maybe I just want to let the world be without shouting, or anger, myself. But I can't do suicide... there is still so much pain left to feel. So much embarrassment to subject the ego. So much to build and collapse....

Sometimes you just have to feel bad and be patient with that energy because it will teach you about what it is. Sometimes it's too late.

My room is simple. A handful of clothes are hung in the closet and another handful is folded in an antique dresser my grandparents owned. An old wooden table and chair sit in a corner. The bed is a single, lying in the center, its back to one wall. The carpet is grey, like my eyes these days.

I spend most a lot of my time playing games and writing and smoking. I hate smoking. There is no satisfaction. I'm too hot and uncomfortable to be satisfied. Lost in toxic cycles of masculinity. How does white America define masculinity? Time will help me come to terms with the weather. I guess it just angers me to see so many people in distress despite the abundance. This is when that shit that I numb with a mask comes back to angst me.

I'm not struggling so much with suicide anymore. I'm realizing how dramatic and proper that would be for someone so privileged. I would hate to be considered proper as if I weren't secure enough to parade with my fears.

If I'm gonna commit suicide, no one will realize that that's what it was. I don't want pity. I'd rather have a 'what the fuck, that's life sometimes though.' you know?

We know. We make it how we live it.

And we don't, especially, our subconscious conditions. But we can feel, sometimes, exactly where some emotional stakes were hammered when we were younger.

That's why we travel. That's why we rebel. Why we party. Why we experiment. Why we create. We love. We build. We're attracted to change. It's our mission to encourage that wherever and in whomever. Show me who you really are all the time, because it changes, all the time. But I understand if you're tired. Sometimes life is rest.

Appreciation falls by the way side when every way is a side though. Every person I meet functions on their certain frequency; composed infinitely within the realm of humanity's complexion.
t

hey must've been green when I met her.