something i wrote on a piece of paper half a year ago. found in an old jacket.

permanent dark circles under these eyes. mouth stale. five dollar whiskey. cigarettes. restless. back of these palms, in their resting place. on the floor. this back up against an apathetic wall. no pat on the back. no warm hand on the shoulder. just brick. lips parted. teeth privately exposed. exhales lasting longer than the inhales. give me your hand.

Excerpt From Moleskine #3

"You never die alone.

Dying is a group activity."

...

"Don't feel sorry for yourself.

We'll never die."

ropes.

i've always simplified life as some sort of game where each of us has a pawn.

I thought it was some sort of board game.

Everyone starts with their pawn, or piece, or little metallic figurine on a different square.

The dice we roll navigates which way we go and how far. Each decision we make--half logic and half chance--is in our hands, but it's not. It's a perfect contradiction.

Sometimes, players cross paths; affecting how the other players game will turn out.

Every roll made--half choice, half chance--directly and indirectly effects every other player's game.

I used to think life was this perfect game that just works out. There's not necessarily a loser or a winner, just a place to begin, and a place to finish.

I'm starting to think life isn't a board game, but a sadistic game of tug-of-war.

But in this game you don't win by tugging on a rope, you win by breaking free.

You win by opting not to play at all.

You start off by yourself, and someone lasso's a rope around you. Your mom holding one end, and your father on the other.

Your mother running one way with a rope around her neck, and your father the other way with a rope digging into the skin around his wrist.

Soon your sunday school teacher joins in with a rope around your head, covering your eyes. And on the other end of the rope, your first school teacher holds the other end, pulling, trying to tear the rope from your eyes so you can see.

Soon best friends join the game, and your first love, your last love, your enemies, etc. Each casts a rope, pulling in their direction, hoping to sway you towards them.

There's a rope of ideals, and a rope of laws, a rope of rules, a rope of social norms, a rope of expectations, a rope of responsibilities.

By the time you reach adulthood, your body is covered in ropes. You stand constricted, upright, supported by these ropes. You stand unrecognizable, hidden under layers of ropes.

Everyone and everything continues to pull, searing your skin, leaving you raw underneath, vulnerable.

What starts as a burning pain only continues to grow as the ropes tighten, and before you know it, you cannot breath.

What's left of your skin bleeds through the ropes, and you can only exhale. A long sigh of weakness. A sigh of being dominated by everything except yourself.

Most of us die here. Torn apart into different directions, leaving nothing that can be recognized as our true selves behind. Leaving behind only a loose, tangled heap of bloody ropes.

The world is a fantastic, disturbing knot. Everyone pulling on those ropes is bound themselves, also being pulled by others.

I've come to the realization that




Wait.
No.

there's nothing i can possible think of to finish that statment.

Let's leave it unfinished.

I don't want to play anymore.