Heart Kisses

God's kissing my neck again. He's so sweet. His  thumb on my bottom lip while he looks me in the eye. What a guy.

It's hard to not want more.

Running in My Own Shit

Writing a post means that I am not currently playing the "I killed myself" game and have chosen the other fun pastime of running in my own shit. It's somewhat like running in sand and is different only because it is NOT a good workout and you literally go nowhere. I like my use of literally there - as if anyone would literally run in their own shit to begin with, let alone discover they didn't get anywhere.

I should be pretending to be dead because my present engagement with life is rather weird in a "that's stupid" kind of way. I'm wanting to satisfy an itch? Or I can feel the beginning of something good on the horizon? Or I've imagined myself into a tizzy of possibility that never actually existed?

I'm not sure but I think it's one of those, perhaps the latter. I am an epiphany about to blossom. It's like chasing an orgasm -  exhausting.

I'm sad for some reason, as if I missed an opportunity... like I fucked myself over by not writing, sculpting, or other. I'm quietly kicking myself in the ass, no... wait, that's too kind:  beating the shit out of myself and loving it.

Fuck, I don't know. Time to get up and die - again.

How Would I Handle This if I Was Dead?

So maybe it wasn't the smoking or maybe it hasn't been long enough as I am still feeling a little less than stellar.

I had a thought as I was watching "The Final 24 - Hunter S. Thompson." I'm not really a fan of his writing, he lives far too close to the edge for my liking and never really made much sense to me. However, he was a writer and I am interested in all writers. Not only did he die, but he committed suicide. As I watched and listened, I found was somewhat pleased with his decision to end his life.

From what I gathered, Hunter didn't expect (or want) to live long and often talked about killing himself if nature didn't do it for him first. Try as he might with the booze and drugs, he was still here at sixty-something. So, having enough of that, he left - as planned.

I imagine his pain and suffering was not unlike the rest of ours, we all handle it differently, and I applaud him for stopping and getting off when he wanted to. I don't see any problem with it, not in his case anyways. I think he hung around long enough. At different levels of failure, I'm sure he tried to fix shit at different points in his life.

When the documentary was over, it made me sigh with the thought, "Wouldn't that be nice, to take one step and be away from this beast we call society? How lovely. "

I would be far away from all the fake shit that rubs my skin raw. All those other people and their personalities and opinions that I can't un-hear; they're like swimming in a ocean of stinging jellyfish, every word, every look, a jab, a sting. All of them yelling their pain and me feeling somewhat the sponge.

Wouldn't it be nice to be away from all of that? It would be like moving to the country after years of living by the highway. Quiet.

I took comfort at the thought and then, after some time, shrugged my shoulders because Hunter's option is not mine.

But, I thought, what if I just pretended in my own head to off myself? What if I pretended that I couldn't take the noise of this world so much that I just turned it off by way of death. I would be removed from society. That would mean that I could just live my life and nobody would see me. I could do things that I enjoy and not worry if the product was rated as good or poor, if I was pretty or ugly, or too pretty or too ugly. Too stupid or too arrogant. Too loud, too quiet. Too perfect or a disgusting mess.  I could do and be them all and just let them be. It wouldn't matter if I was good enough or not, because I wouldn't really be here.

I would like to do this. I would like to kill myself so that I may live in peace. It will be tough, though. It will change the way I go about everything.I'll have to remember that dead people don't have earthly opinions, and whenever something happens that stings (real or imaginary) I will have to ask myself, "how would I handle this if I was dead?"

Nothing is everything.

I Regret to Inform

I have dirt on my soul and it smells like stale cigarette smoke. I've done it - again. The incongruity of my sweet soul and my smoker self; ugh, I tell ya... it's really something else.

- C  O  G  N  I  T I  V  E      D  I  S  S  O  N  A  N  C  E -

I'm sure I was pretty happy a few weeks ago, and now... I am depressed. Just a little, though. So stewpid.

Suddenly, I am walking around my life, my body-house, feeling as though things aren't enough when just weeks ago I was marveling that I had reached the point of my life that I had manifested (job wise) and things were magically ducky.

Well, fuck this shit. I ain't hanging around this crack table, chasing Cyanide and DDT dragons, forever.

That's it, that's all I've got. Nothin' new here.

And Your Point Is...?

I'm re-writing the book I wrote about five years ago (I just did the math for that, I can't believe it was so long ago)  as an escape from my husband and marriage. He was at a really bad place at the time. I couldn't leave him just then, it would'n't have been right, but I needed out at the same time. So I wrote a book about a girl who goes to Ireland for a break. She tells everyone she just needs a break and is  going there because she has family history that she wants to look into while getting a little rest and relaxation - but really, her intent is to meet someone, anyone worthy, and to have a fling, an affair. She'll be gone for 4 weeks, will she do it? Will she be able to meet someone in such little time? Or will she get more than she bargained for?

*Spoiler Alert*

 She gets more than she bargained for. Big surprise, hey?

Update: I wrote this post a few days ago, but then my computer crashed and I ran out of time. I figured I would come back to it and finish it... but I have no idea what my point was going to be.

Oh WAIT! I just remembered.

As I re-read the parts where she talks about why she wants/needs to leave her relationship, well, I didn't realize just how fucking angry I was at my husband for being so sick and depressed and smearing his mind shit everywhere. What an ass.

I find it very amusing to read and somewhat cathartic.

Since writing this, I did actually take a two years off from us. I left him. It was difficult to convince him of this in the first year but he eventually got it. I would have had a fling if I found someone worthy enough - but I did not.

Looking back at how angry I was, that break was a good thing for me. Since then, and having been back with him for two years now,  he is nothing like that character anymore. And I am not the same person either. That time seems soooo long ago. Another lifetime.

I'm so glad I had the courage to take the time I needed. It was very unorthodox of me, which I think is pretty cool.

Lost and Found

I just don't know. Feelings of contentment yet also disenchantment.  I wish or long for something a little more moving, a little more fitting. Today, all the puzzle pieces fit neatly. But I want a different puzzle. I think, maybe. I don't know.

I feel as if I am not quite one with the philosopher's stone. Like I'm there, but not quite. I want to rise above and float, live outside of this everyday life while my body stays behind and completes the required tasks.

It requires much attention to ones true self to maintain this. A surreal distance but not a duplicity. Just a taking my soul for a walk kind of maintenance.

"Remember, we are not here."

God, the Verb

The longitude and latitude of my body, the different spots where these lines cross - they are a little bit like god. Each and every time.

Mapping the soul, marking the spot. A spot.

My skin, a soft ground receiving life, breathing in the whole.

I am creation. "Don't think, meat" (I do love that line).

a lovers hand tracing the curves of my flesh. Sweet, beautiful flesh.

I straddle and ride with pristine honesty - your god.

I am the essence, the act, the undoing

I am.

I Will Not Call Myself a Douche Bag - Anymore

It's a funny life. We live here among each other, loving and hating each other.

I both love and loathe my fellow humans. I hate their arrogance, their subtly screaming superiority complexes over each other, their asleep at the wheel attendance in life. They're, we're,  ridiculous and beautiful for it.

I hate my own arrogance writing these words.

I stand in a tall white room by myself, the corners dirty with a spore like shadow that grows ever so slowly to the bottom. I am bored with the revelations that remove me from my culture, but I am content to be here. I do like the quiet.

It's like running my hands along the tops of tall grass as I walk through a vast and empty field on hot summer day. The only sound is the light wind and the sound of leaves breaking from the heat. It's beautiful, isn't it?