Get Fucked
The worst thing is the sudden, overwhelming waves of sadness. I hate that. Sitting here trying not to cry. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, I just don't want people thinking they have to talk to me about it. I'm tired of explaining myself. I've been doing it for a thousand years, so long it has been come habit for me. Hell, I'm doing now. This doesn't count though. It's supposed to be a record of... something. I don't even remember anymore what it's supposed to be. In anycase, here's to John Popper.
You'll get no answer from me
About what I want or what I get
Brave enough to speak afraid to see
Confuse the issue till you forget
And I've tried
To finally decide
Why
I'm in your face
And if you can't already tell
I am unable to let things go
I'm told I do it very well
But more important you should know
That all the same
You've got no one to blame
But yourself
If you call that a waste
Cause it ain't me
That's been hurting you inside
And if you've learned
You'll know much more than I
That you're gonna have to go and find it
You'll have to dig beneath the ground
You'll have to unearth every ugly stone
That kept you on your own
And simply put them down
You're gonna have to look around
You'll get no answer from me
About what I get or what I want
That was enough to make her leave
She's not the first one come and gone
And I don't care
Buyer beware
Of me
Cause it might get rough
If you want peace then live alone
If you wanna hide then find a stage
Each a brief but perfect home
To accommodate your rage
And sometimes
In the midst of all my crimes
I feel lost
Or have I lost enough
Remaining friends
Remind me as they say
It's up to you
The things you throw away
And still you're gonna have to go and find it
You'll have to dig beneath the ground
You'll have to unearth every ugly stone
That kept you on your own
And simply put them down
You're gonna have to look around
You're gonna have to look around
You're gonna have to look around
Back to the Future
Strange days ahead, I think. I've got a weird blend of sensations going on. I'm oh my medication now, for just over a week and I get these strange rushes that move from the front of my forehead down my spine and into my arms. Into my whole body, actually. It feels almost surreal and puppetesque. Emotionally I'm a little scattered as well. I feel the ups and downs coming back, the strange roller coaster of being happy and sad at the same time. I feel good about it though, about coming back to the reality that is mine, and not artificially induced. I've even started writing again. I've been stunted and I didn't like it.
Diane and I are "taking a break". I'm not sure what that means, exactly. I do know that I need to be on my own to regain myself. I've been living my life for her, and in the process I feel like I've lost who I am. The other part of me argues that I am who I am, with her. We'll see. Experimenting with my mind, life and body has become an obsession. Change the scenarios and see what happens. No safety nets, just the headlong plunge. Like the tarot Fool. Fates and fools.
Trent's Saga
It is roughly midnight here in Iceland. I can't sleep, which is nothing new. What is different is that the sun is still up and actually won't set tonight. What's got me up, is the Saga of Egill, and ancient Islandic warrior poet. He's hard to escape around here, and with all things that haunt me the way this has, it usually hides a message that some unseen fates will dangle and bait me with until I see the lesson that is hidden there. Egill, at age three was an accomplished poet and by age seven killed a boy. He would go on to do some pretty amazing things, so the museums and stories say. At some time in his later years, he would lose his sons and write a poem, blaming Odin for giving him great strength as a warrior and a poet, but not giving him any satisfaction as a man.
Anyone see where I'm going with this?
I have denied my gifts, somehow the same gifts, in a wway for a long time. I gave up my skills as a poet, chiding the inspiriation that kept me awake, that seemed to follow me and make me want to write all the time. I complained in my poems that the songs would not leave me alone, and wished often in my verse to have the songs be silent. And it seems they are.
As a warrior, I've always been quick to rise, been bloody in my thoughts and at times take great strength from the knowledge that I could likely beat any foe I faced. It's not really braggging, I don't think, I just have no real fear in that regard. What I fear, and what I always fear is myself. Knowing that I could face down the biggest enemy, and destroy him, even if it meant destroying myself. Rage took me a few times as a child, once I knocked a boy down and broke his skull, and another time I had a boy by the throat before I realized what I was doing. I believe, and have always believed that it was red rage, berserk that took me both times.
Both these skills I've hid, I've denied and tried to shape myself as to other things. Ultimately I fail at all of them because I'm not true to myself. I make myself miserable because I am afriad of who I truely am.
