we talked about everything tonight. i was afraid to begin. actually, i’ve been afraid to begin for nearly a week. sick to my stomach, unsure of how it was going to unfold. worried that we would have a fight. i am done with fighting. i am done with standing still. all done. so we talked.
i can’t go on this way. i am not happy. more than not happy. i am undone, and in my undoing i have severed my ties to the things that have been killing me. before i cut a single cord, i perused them thoughtfully from a clearing i arrived in some years ago. i have explored my past, traced my fingers over the sharp edges of razor blades, jazz textures, old friends, lost love, and the feeling of water in my nose that lasted for seven years. i have arrived in the present, tracing my fingers over the surfaces of hip hop, elecro, house, ambient, and my own work as an artist.
i found that i am a punk. not the raver, nor the savior i thought i was… or maybe hoped i would be. what i am is a man who is full of love, and boundless energy, yet i am disgusted with the world, and revolted by the main stream, and want nothing to do with mortgages, the government, television, and i don’t think brittney spears is even vaguely attractive. shave your head, tell the truth and maybe… but even then the stink of love’s baby soft would leave me wretching on your expensive bedding, reaching for my jacket and heading out the door without so much as a kiss.
staring into the eyes of the very best friend i have ever had, i explained as best i could that i am who i am. i have struggled, and done everything i can to edit myself, to compress my pain into some kind of pellet which i might be able to swallow, and pass through my system. all i find is that this panic, this betrayal of self, this suppression of instinct, this dead eyed floor gazing is not the truth. i have been deeply dishonest.
what i will do now, i do not know. how i will go about it, i do not know. but i have placed an iron spike into the ice sheets, and smashed it with all of my might, and stood kindly watching the crack begin to expand across the tundra. though i have no expectations, and no hope of there ever being a tropical oaisis, or even a livable patch of land below the surface, i am happier to be a part of this breaking of unbearable landscapes, than to carry on living here in my bivouac, as if raw seal meat where the only food in the world, blubber the only source of heat.
we talked tonight, and i unfastened my oil stiff parka, pulled my arms from the sleeves, tore the hood from my head, and left it behind me in the snowdrifts. for i no longer need protection from the cold.