glory! : drowsy

washer

Goodnight my love Remember me as you fall to sleep Fill your pockets with the dust and the memories That rises from the shoes on my feet I won't be back here Though we may meet again I know it's dark outside Don't be afraid Everytime I ever cried from fear Was just a mistake that I made Wash yourself in your tears And build your church On the strength of your faith Please Listen to me Don't let go Don't let this desperate moonlight leave me With your empty pillow Promise me the sun will rise again I too am tired now Embracing thoughts of tonight's dreamless sleep My head is empty My toes are warm I am safe from harm...

Sunday, March 3, 2024

drowsy

i need someone to talk to. i feel misunderstood. the one person i can talk to cannot fit inside of my head. i am in a constant, shriveled, rotted state of longing for grace and dreading whatever vocation i have chosen to indulge myself in. i have fallen into the same patterns i have been subjected to by myself constantly. i am sad and dismayed, i am hurt. i am tired of my body and i feel disconnected to it. i cannot respond to its ugly wishes without then feeling dread and remorse. i cannot eat in peace, i cannot do much more than sleep. i get bored.

i long and long for beauty like people long for love or money, i long for beauty like i should long for a lover. i long for ascension into a beautiful world where i am at peace and i can draw and sing the glory of God but for His love i cannot do much but

i dont want to join a monastery, i live in perpetual superficial desire for more and more when i truly just want to lay and rest, and create beauty and consume it, take it into my mouth and feel it sitting warm over my tongue, like an animal finding refuge in a cavern from the downpour. i long to be some form of victorian ghost, to lose my blood and my flesh and walk the earth looking and seeing. i cant taste, i cant feel, i have lost my senses and yet i am automatic in my response to eat and drink and fuck, i have to restrain myself to my bed for a semblance of the serenity i want. i feel like hunger and abstinence from all that moves and can be felt should by definition do good to me, its the natural state of my spirit, yet i have these two sides of me.

i feel like the part of my that i host, this wretched, sad parasite, moves me and contorts me into a thing i cannot recognize. i feel i must get rid of it but id have to kill it and then where would i live? i feel like the side of my that writes this and does the things i do, the writing and the painting and the playing, is the victim of the disease. the disease that is a rabid creature that cries to me. a baby that i leave inside of a crib to die from starvation, but who cries until it vomits and rots and rots and builds up a foul odor. i feed it my flesh and my blood and sweat only then but it continues wanting from me, and it will continue to do so. i cannot resist the cries, i cannot sleep through it.

i want to be free from the reign of my body, that weeps and wails. because it is an animal that has resided in my home that now growls at me when i dont want to feed it my meals and hollers when i try to push it out of my own home. an animal that i did not choose to house. a daughter i never had. wants and wants and feels like it deserves my sacrifice but it cannot offer me anything i want, gives it to me anyway, makes the hands i hold them in turn black and infected.

this pain is an eternal fire. it is horrible. it is so long and weary. i hate it. i despise this. i want to go. this pain want to scrub off my skin but it is embedded into me deep into my viscera, i must kill it but then i will have to end the possibility for a future i want, i know its never coming, i just cant have it here the way i cant have it anywhere else. its just material and this is the only material i have, one thing in common is better than none. this lack makes me insane. i need to go.

i pray for death.

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sylvia plath, the bell jar

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Psalm 18: 6-11

In my distress I called upon the Lord, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him was dark waters And thick clouds of the skies.