Bright Eyes

I lost my voice.

It became dull and scratchy, slowly consumed by the smog and fever until it was gone. No innate ability to communicate. I could wave my hands and smile my flushed smile, but the voice wasn’t there. No more language. No more words. Just a futile attempt to convey what I was thinking, but nothing made any sense, no one cared to know. Mute.

I feel very on edge— overloaded, unsure, and yet so curious. All the occurrences, but its still so numbing. I’ve spent the whole day wasting away, searching for inspiration, checking my brain, the past week I met some intriguing people, had some intriguing encounters, but none of it seems like enough. I’ve not yet hit full speed, and I’m filled with doubt. My mind seems incapable of thinking in concrete, vivid ideas, so it’s all a juxtaposition of this and that, who and what, pictured fragments of the past, of the indubitable, endless week.

I’ve been listening to the same song on repeat since this morning. The same three minutes have become thirteen hours.

But you,

You write such pretty words, but life’s no storybook… 

Some days it just hurts to be alive. There’s this weight on my shoulders, and I feel so unaccomplished and overwhelmed by the things I have to do, but haven’t done. I want to say something. I want to speak, but its like I’m choking on what isn’t there. It’s ironic, because I can’t actually speak, but it’s more than that. There’s this pang, this loud chaos around me that I want to shut up. I want to shut it away so it stops ringing, stops disrupting my isolation. I want to be alone. I just want to be home. I want to be somewhere I belong, somewhere I feel like I mean something to anyone. I know that exists. I know there are people everywhere I affect and generalize and change, but now, I want someone to affect me.

I need some meaning I can memorize,

The kind I have always seems to slip my mind…

Within all the confines of this language, this begging for disruption and change, the ultimate completion, what if it doesn’t exist? I don’t know if it exists. I don’t know if there is any one thing that could make the array of ups and downs become one final contentment. The same inherent meaning, the ultimate goodness to overlap the numbing desire, the numbing emptiness we all feel. Lacan made it pretty damn clear… It’s inevitable; we’re just always grasping for more, and this desire has to do with nothing more then our inherent inability to label the world around us. Communication breakdown baby.  Words to convey so much and so little, to expedite the unfulfilling end to speaking, writing, explaining. Language makes you numb. So I must ask, if you couldn’t communicate, could you love?   

Loves an excuse to get hurt

Do you like to hurt?

I do, I do—

Then hurt me…

I’ve had all day to sit and write, all day to profess and be efficient, but no efficiency. Sometimes its nice to do nothing. To just sit inside the confines of your head, breathing deep so the thoughts get stuck in your ears, pores, throat, nose, in and out, in and out in that direct, general motion. What is there to breathe anyway? Smog, bullshit, fancy perfume—oxygen’s been corrupted. You could always stop breathing.

I want a lover I don’t have to love. I want a boy who’s so drunk he doesn’t talk…

Yesterday, I sat in a cab, and drank in the world. The city. The air. The complex, angry array of materialism and tradition. Where I go and where I’m going always seem to be such contradictions. I know what I’m supposed to be, who I’m supposed to be, but it seems I am constantly at odds with myself. Everyday it changes, everyday it’s someone else, everyday I’m impressed then disappointed by the same things, the same people, the same perfect inhibitions. Everything is just always changing, always pushing me off the straight line, and back down the rabbit hole, into the deep, dark beckoning well of obtrusive liars and pain. What if I just stopped caring? What if I started acting like other people, forgetting my morals and stepping into a new world of bitchery, fuckery, and putrid indifference, would that make me more productive?  

Bad actors with bad habits,

Some sad singers, they just play tragic

And the phones ringing

And the van’s leaving

Let’s just keep touching

Let’s just keep, keep singing.

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