The Suicide of an Ego

The suicide of an ego.

This is not a suicide note. I do not feel like harming myself or others. This is merely a collection of thoughts from a half tormented mind.

I

It's a perpetual landslide.

An avalanche just not as pretty.

Made up of the stuff you walk on everyday.

Me.

My being is the earth.

It has been raped.

Then saved.

It has been pillaged.

Then brought back from the brink.

It has been used ever so elegantly, like a plane to a carpenter.

Then thrown in the garbage.

It has been the whisper of a soft wind through broken branches and dead leafs.

Then is burnt to nothing by the careless flick of a cigarette.

My soul is the water.

It is being been drunk.

Then dirtied by the needles of vagrant homeless people.

It is the sole protecting the bottom of your feet.

Worn and disheveled from a lifetime of hard travel.

It is the life that sustains you.

Evaporated and crusted with the minerals of a salty storm.

I am the world.

I am beautiful and majestic, expanding longer than you can see.

Poisoned by your hate and fear.

I am strong and vibrant.

Destroyed by your collective egocentric apathy.

I am the giver of life.

That is dying faster than I can produce.

I am everything.

Poisoned by you.

Poisoned by your savage hate.

Poisoned by your evil souls.

Poisoned from the love that I can give and the life I can fulfill.

An avalanche. Bigger than any tidal wave.

Beautiful, majestic, strong, deadly, transcendent.

Dangerous.

II

The rage builds the instant I walk into the DMV. It's not that it's a bad place altogether, just a disgusting display of what the human race is. Metaphorically, a bunch of sheep. Literally, a collection of people ranging from the lady with the fancy tight-ish black dress on, to the tired old lady and her screaming infant and snotty toddler running around spreading his germs around like a walking biological warhead. It always makes me uneasy. Just cloistered in with other bodies. What happens if something happens.

Panic is a bitch.

What if someone comes in with a gun on a crazy rampage because he couldn't get his license.

Creative license.

Hahaha I would never do that.

The lady on the speakers is going crazy keeping up with numbers. If I didn't have mental fortitude, I'd go crazy.

The lady in front of me behind the counter isn't doing her job.

I'm watching her.

She's very invested in her phone conversation.

Not a work one obviously.

She's smiling a genuine smile.

Still not doing work.

What do I pay her for.

I get taxes taken out of my checks.

She finally presses the button for the crazy number yelling lady in the speakers.

Now taking f-022 at window number 8.

Fuck you. Call my number.

Creative license.

It's not a real license to do bad things.

Imaginations are fake for a reason.

Right?

It's an old sponge. Drippy and scum filled.

You know.

The one you cringe at when you grab.

The slime that envelops your hands like molasses.

It smells like rotting food and bile.

You gag when you even look at it because you associate everything that is disgusting in the world with it.

It is your trump.

It's your rape.

It's your view of any other country that doesn't have wifi readily available for you.

It's your "moist."

It's your most disgusting memory.

It's your most repugnant thought.

But go ahead and times that by 100,000,000 to the nine quadrillionth power.

This is what I thought of when I saw my sponge.

I did the dishes.

III

Almost one month.

One more month.

The excitement and anxiety are already building.

I love Halloween.

IV

I might be fired.

For my own stupidity.

I'm at war with panic after panic.

It's feels like my heart's on meth.

Like my story of life is either drugs or a life of thinking I should go back to them. Feelings wouldn't be as readily available.

I would be able to sail along the clouds of serenity and blind content.

It sounds nice until you wish you were dead when you didn't have it.

So. I didn't get fired, but they sure kept the thought going for as long as possible.

Now that I'm completely worn down, I wonder what other things might exasperate my already failing mental fortitude.

Fun

Fucking

Times.

V

It's hard times out here.

We're on the brink of nuclear war.

Racism is at an all time high again.

Terrorism is at an all time high period.

The time of change is nigh.

If you do not adapt, you die.

That is it.

If you are not fearful.

You are stupid.

If you are not paranoid.

You are ignorant.

If you are not contriving.

You are dead.

The world is a scary place.

But in this life, you get those moments.

Or maybe it's just me.

But, it's this odd space. Extra sensory and out of body. Kinda like your a camera and you see yourself and you pan out and let the tendrils of your mind grasp at the possibilities of the universe.

Then it starts to dissipate.

But, only once you notice you've slipped into this vast lucidity.

I live for that space.

I can never seem to get enough of being in that void.

Conscious unconsciousness.

At that point you are not this construct of a persona you've built and molded to be what you think represents you best from this shell. You are immeasurable.

It's only once you notice that vast power, you retreat back to this thing we can only seem to comprehend.

VI

So. Yeah. Hi.

I wish I could control different areas in my brain.

That would be so dope.

Just think about getting crazy hallucinations and bam a tiger is jumping out of your television screen. (That actually happened on like 18 ecstasy pills) but I digress.

I've done countless experiments with drugs on myself ranging from micro dosing salvia to keep a trip going, to mixing ecstasy with heroin and coke to see what a rolling speedball would feel like.

It was superb.

It's always the ending ya know?

The ending when you've grown and become introspective and you've realized that those memories have become vital tolls for survival in the environment of which it came.

It's always the ending when you realize what you've seen and what you've been through are only milestones that have been passed and achieved and you're still alive even after all the fights and death and drugs and sex and love and hate. The common denominator is that through all of that I'm still here.

It's always the ending that's the most boring, that's for sure.

I don't get that rush to go crazy and follow through with it any more.

It's always the ending when you realize that you've probably done more damage to yourself than five normal people could do to themselves in their lifetimes.

It's always the ending when you realize it's too late to reverse time and your not invincible anymore, in fact , you feel yourself getting older every second of everyday.

I was gunna clean my crystals tonight because of the full moon. But there's too much in my head. They need to soak up more brain waves....

VII

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. To be honest half the time I don't know what day it is. Like it's just an endless cycle of work sleep and fights. It's tiresome.

It's like he doesn't see me.

Or value me.

Like I'm a cheap snow globe.

Pretty to look at.

Fun to play with once in a while.

But ultimately I sit on a shelf.

Like that god damned elf.

Snail on a scale.

Donkey Kong on a bong.

Shrek on a deck.

Christopher Columbus on a plumbus.

Mother fucking Kirby on a furby type shit.

I know I don't exactly bring much to the table as far as romanticism but that's because by nature the hopeless romantic is an abstract ideology.

It mostly defines self saboteur.

I have known for a while since rehab that that was a huge hurdle.

It seems they just keep coming.

VIII

I'm so tired I cannot think of anything worthwhile to say. No gems. No wise saying. I'm just tired. Emotionally, physically, and mentally.

VIII

I am the bringer of death.

I made Eve bite the apple.

I broke the wall in Jericho.

I gave way to the destruction of Troy.

I erupted Vesuvius.

I brought forth the destruction of multiple indigenous American cultures.

I made the natives walk the trail of tears.

I stole all the land.

I told Hitler what and how to do it.

I gave way for the birth of Charles Manson.

I am the demons in his head.

In your head.

And in mine.

It's all my fault.

I am to blame for everything.

X

It’s all contrasted.

The colors are all out of whack. It’s not the lucid surreal painting picture of perfection anymore. It’s guided streets and love colored sunsets have all but faded into a dark brown-grey dimly overcast sky.

It’s no longer the giant jungle gym I remember. It once was fun and exciting. Now it’s monotonous and tedious.

I remember sitting on the beach in a foreign land. I knew no one and didn’t care. I was six or seven, and I had figured out a way to get out of the checkpoint without an ID. Jump the fence a little bit down the way.

Every once in a while I would feel adventurous and sneak out into the “city” which was just another town. But this one was beautiful. Nice happy smiling people. Other kids running around having fun with their friends.

And I just walked on.

Alone.

I was okay with that because I was making my way to the beach.

The one with pebbles instead of sand, littered with fishermen looking for the next delicious catch of the day.

It all seemed so magical, like I was part of a different world and no one could see me.

That world died when my jungle gyms turned to kitchens and power tools and buildings and prisons and jail and rehabs.

That world died when I realizedI needed a wall just for protection.

Just so that at least my jungle gym can stay intact.

But

The swings have rusted off and the slide is in disrepair. The basketball hoop hangs to life with one last rusty finger before poof. Red dust falls to the ground.

The world is dead and I’m just here.

XI

It wasn’t a bad day in the physicality of it. It wasn’t even a bad day as far as the people I met and spoke with today. It wasn’t a bad day.

My head was kind of in a weird fog all day though.

I didn’t feel like drowning the world in the same playlist again. I felt like feeling the vibrational patterns of the world. Seeing it for what it is.

I talk to the horses. They are easier to speak to.

Some seem to understand my time and the fact that I am atleast trying to convey some message.

They’re perceptive.

Bubba was spooky near me all day. He calmed when I talked to him.

Jazz nuzzled me the whole walk to the corral as if he’s telling me to pay attention to him.

I pet his nose while we walked.

He was happy.

Raisin the dog came by today.

She’s small and looks like a burnt marshmallow.

Raisin is old and half blind.

Silver is cool he likes to play.

He hurt his foot playing.

Now he doesn’t play as much.

Uno.

Uno is a disrespectful little shitbag.

He likes to not let just me catch him.

He turns his butt to me and looks me in the eye as if to say “I dare you”, then bolts and bucks around like an asshole.

XII

Hello there.

Figured I’d stop in.

Say hello.

I have decided once again to try and quit smoking. So far it’s taken me three day to finish a pack and I have to constantly remind myself to actually chew the gum instead of packing it away in my cheek.

The gum kinda helps.

It does it’s purpose.

Take the edge off.

I wish there was a gum that could take the edge off of life.

Oh wait.

It’s not exactly gum but it’s gummy in texture.

Black tar heroine.

Ha

Ha

I wouldn’t ever do that again.

But throw me some fucking Valium and were having a party up in here.

A manic cleaning party.

Did you do under the floor yet?

I can’t get that deep.

Keep fucking scrubbing.

The world is one biological disaster away from the apocalypse.

Not in my house.

Not while I’m on Valium.

God damned me clean in this piece.

Bald headed cleaning fuck boy.

All the girls want him because he’s 6”10000000” and 8,000 pounds of pure cleansing muscle. Rub me on the wall bitch.

Bing! Clean.

XIII

I hurt myself today so now I need a tetanus shot. I’m sitting here staring out the window looking at the lights cast themselves across the window. It makes me think of cities.

I miss living in a city not because here’s so much to do all the time.

It’s because I can literally walk the same street every day four times a day and no one will know who or what I am.

I miss that.

I miss living in a void of sorts.

Empty faces, lost words, and fleeting loves.

Bars and shopping and fun.

Fights and riots and death.

It’s always exciting in an empty way.

People just milling about, running on a perpetual empty gas tank. The only thing that’s real are the flickering lights overshadowing the streets in a hypnotizing dotted line.

It’s like they’re leading me to something.

If I follow them I eventually end up in darkness.

Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s an island in and of itself.