merrrp.

Found this in a journal.  Not very coherent, but yous gets the idea.

Also: I have an ideeeaaaaa?  For a boooook? (said with a crescendo-ed high-pitched voice).

 I wrote this day before I enrolled in Fuller Counseling (Nov 10 2008).

I have never been more drawn and repelled to a single item in my entire life...

I know the reality of fighting escapism with escapism--those days when the only time you know you are slightly tolerable is when you are severely alone.  Even then you clad yourself in anonymity, to cover your head from God and the world. On those days, the battle against your own body is so tempting. 

The understood sensual alluredness is right on, for the only way will fight so dirtily against ourselves is if we believe we look sexy doing it.  And, oh, do we look sexy: lips parted to shape our mouths into an O, exhibiting our superhuman ability to breathe in fire.  With every inhale we are tempting death, and  our every exhale is the aversion of fate, the victory of the chase, the high-five after getting laid.  We are the Ubermann, and we blow our smoke the face of the morality that pits itself as the  basis against our actions.  Our smoke creates rings that tighten around its neck, lassoing it to our back pockets.

Because we need that morality to smoke in the first place, to remind us that something is so despicably wrong inside of us that it can't be faced and must be smoked out of us into the open.  When the wrongness is so strong we find it can't possibly exist (and also find ourselves arguing that we shouldn't either), that drag is the only thing that's real--more real than the day you might live tomorrow, more real than the promise of something new and big, or small, more real than the fantastical dreams you might chase away with a warm breakfast the next morning...

Snap.

Without realizing, I had killed my possibility of existence.  Between my two fingers lay the two halves, innards exposing nothing but flaky earthy repetition, the pattern of humanity's moments of  defining their being.  I could not see the possibility of clarity but only death and ashes, flicked away on the ground beneath my feet, or blended an ashtray of all the thoughts of the generations that approach it.

I throw my promise away, and begin to think about cloud formations and what color scarf to wear the next morning...