face so beat
“Face so beat
skin peeling like buckwheat
green bean husks
littering the sink cast long shadows at dusk
Shelling garlic on the floor
off white skins flutter like moths on the tile every time a door is opened or shut anywhere in the apartment”
What happened? Comfort cannot feel good anymore; elegance became decadence; discomfort in a world complete — as in not in shambles — where I don’t have no energy to fulfill my role. Something is wrong. Don’t know yet what it is, but it’s dominating, taking over, reigning on and by me, through me, like it likes me, but it kills me. It’s killing me, that is.
Tonight — when I was sat at the armchair, watching the window — was like one of those strolls I used to take, on an old pair of Converse shoes full of holes in the sole, that would last days. Promenades with no reason to be, with no clear goal in mind, with no end in sight, that just happened because it had to. I’d feel like I had to walk, so I’d put shoes on and walk, and walk for what would feel like forever. I walked and walked and walked ignoring all around me, them not existing to me, me not existing to them, but I was them and this way I would escape myself.
these walks were meant for cleansing, a therapist told me once. never believed that. bet she thought she’d done a great job by trying to explain me to myself and failing at it. but I knew she was wrong because I’ve never been right (about myself, that is). it’s complicated, you know? the whole me thing. half the time I don’t feel like myself, and the other half I do, but just slightly. not much. but that serves well enough for me to feel like a failure, a fake and a fraud, and doubt all the reason I put on paper. the walks are part of this realization half, the third person scheme, where I give up existing? maybe? where I turn off so the harsh truth doesn’t bite? perhaps? perhaps is a nice word, isn’t it?
what I know, that is, what I can be sure of, is that I never got over it. I never got over being me, because even when I forfeit it’s never for real. there’s no such thing as a white flag when my self is the enemy. so I just accept being a loser? being at loss, I guess, for the rest of my life. but the tricky part is that it doesn’t feel good. it’s not a stockholm syndrome the way it is right now, because even though I am the prisoner, the guard and the bars, all parts of the play are ruthless and won’t give up, like a patriotic soldier at war. all have knives, all have hearts, all have a killing thirst that cannot be satiated except when the knife is placed at the own heart. the answer, well, the answer is right there —, therefore —, I lost the right to cry. we lost the right to cry.
at that time, when I would walk around the city for days without noticing, the answer the doctors gave was a little spheroid to topple the already unbalanced cocktail of drugs in my blood everyday. and then, instead of walking away, I would just sit in an armchair, look at the window, and stay there until my body shut down. mom stopped worrying about my diet. me being at home all day every day was already good enough for her. and I couldn’t say no. not yet. in fact, I never said anything. never felt the need to. always had a pencil and some paper by my side. but my friend took notice of my situation, worked day and night to help me out of the electric chair. but when I found myself free, that fifty percent was already corrupted, and the other half didn’t matter.
what helped was using the happy part as a prevention deposit for mindless strolls. I decided to, consciously, give up a part of myself, to cut the real me some slack. and it worked. for years it worked, and everyday, every morning, I would go out and walk for two, three hours, uncovering the marvels of the world I live in. and when came the time to regret my memories, I could just do something else. maybe watch some cartoons, maybe read some books, maybe talk to some people. but now, now I once again feel the need to walk away. but I can’t. so I sit in the armchair, look out the window, and stay there for as long as I need to. but this necessity is growing heavier every day, and it’s got to the point where breathing is unbearable. I feel miserable.
I’m productive, still. I’m bringing bread to the table, but there’s no apetite in me. I’m afraid I’ve been losing too much weight lately. she pointed it out, my skin is too close to my bones. but I can’t find myself, I can’t find in myself anything anymore. there’s nothing in me, I’m hollow. and when I sit in the armchair, when I’m dragged to the armchair and forced to look out the window, I feel despair. it doesn’t feel empty anymore, it doesn’t feel like a escape, it just feels like I’m going insane. it feels like I’m going insane and I can’t stop faking it to the people around me. I can’t stop saying I’m fine. I can’t stop lying, and this is going to kill me eventually.
this is not a scream for help. it’s just me, right? it’s just a journal entry. just private. just some digital scribbling. digital pen and paper. no need to fuck with the physical world. no need to pierce the murmur of cars and planes, and exclamations of surprise, of happiness, of hatred and agony, anger; traffic fight; loud bell ringing loudly every time the front doors are opened or shut. I feel like sartre. did you knew he could write in a perfect straight line with his eyes closed? I can do it too, I don’t need to look at the keyboard, I don’t need to look at the up and down and circling around of the pencil, I know what I write is true, I know what I write, I know my words and the words that. which. rawness? rawness is not a beautiful word. mine probably. who else uses rawness? you know what would be funny? correcting the angle brackets. the ps and /ps in this coding deal. I never use angle brackets