Your cocktail sir,





2006-07-11 - 2:38 p.m.

I've had nothing to eat today. That's not entirely true, I did have a grande Mocha from Starbuck's this morning.

That is it. I'm a nervous wreck, ready to jump into the traffic that barrels along the street outside, hoping that the impact will not hurt, and that I can enjoy the sudden weightlessness of flying through the air, the sun warm against the sudden cool resistance of air on my skin, until blackness as I hit the pavement, peaceful, blissful blackness that can envelope me so that I never have to feel this emotionally fucked up again. Who is to really say whether or not there is anything after all this. There is enough evidence and superstition to back up whatever theory or religion one chooses. Which is kind of crazy, but then pretty much everything we do as people is crazy.

Normally I can stem these thoughts of harm to either myself or others by alternatilvly sniffing my fingers, pinching my ears, rubbing my nose so that the cartalige grinds or perhaps hitting my head against a wall in a repeated patter. It calms me down, it restores order to the panic, it helps. But this day has been so very, very fucked up. There is nothing to relieve the pressure and the stress, and I find it a miracle that I have not succombed to tears.

Oh the phone. How much I hate the phone. The shrill ring, the interuption of my thoughts, my words, my deeds. I would love to take this pent up agression and do things to the phone. How that brittle plastic will feel my wrath, how that tinny speaker will scream in feedback and pain while I grind it into dust using fists, teeth, feet. Perhaps I will bludgeon someone with the handset before I destroy the base, the chord would make an excellent weapon of strangulation, with the coils pulling straight under my deaths grip, the face of my victim turning red, than maroon, veins breaking under the pressure and the eyes bulging out, extra white against the purple of the face, struggling to end the life that struggles just as fiercely to survive, until we have a victor. Will the thought of roots digging deep into the earth have kept my stand? Or will the attempt to live outweigh my need to kill? Can my body absorb the impact of a Ford Taurus traveling 45mph followed by the impact of my body traveling a mathmatical fraction of that speed, transferred to a frame until physics impacts me with the sun heated pavement? These are the questions that I want answered to day.

And even in those, I feel that I will be frustrated.

previous - next

Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

- - 2007-07-11

Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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