|xenomorphine cover v1, copyright 2011 artemis sere|
copyright 2011 artemis sere
straight away, I’ll thank her for this. for bringing me back here, to the written word. for now. I am hopeful that this refreshed commitment to letting it all drip onto the page helps again. I can’t seem to find equilibrium or direction here in the memory ward, arteries and veins weak from the poking and prodding, the letting and coagulating, the metamorphosis from failure to functional.
things are changing within, but seem to return to a common center. alien in purpose and path.. painless in promise, but presenting only broken ties. this is what I’ve worked so hard for: a return to isolation, a strengthened connection to disconnection. book one was the dark start; this is the bewilderment in the wake of the ultraviolence of life.
this addiction to disappearance in the strangest of forms.
regardless of reason or cynical treasons, I’m back here, to a life with far fewer answers than questions. to a life of empty nights with the auditor’s calculator in my heart. to thumped hope and swollen pessimism. and I tell myself that this can’t be all there is to this dire craft. of healing, only to be fractured. of loving, only to be traded. of caring, only to be dropped.
never good enough. truly, and without divergence. the drugs are seemingly our best friends, but we can’t seem to pull ourselves from them long enough to be human to each other. the liquor is always the victor. it’s dominance is grand and historical. amazing and brutal. but I’m not here to judge or jury; the furious truth is that the need to disconnect is inherent in all of us. we are each a bit antisocial. why is that?
natural survival instinct would tell us to move closer, stay bound, be a tighter tribe for the sake of all human people. creatures that stray from the flock or the herd rarely survive in the wild. we are dichotomous, deeply hypocritical, split in two beings that drink symbiotically off each other. venomously feed through intravenous pipes, the darkness becomes part of us, a shade of us.
the exile of us.
wise people tell you that you should learn to enjoy being alone, find a way to appreciate the conversation you can have with yourself, getting to know yourself better. solitude is a great partner for a while, until it is the only soul in town that you know. after a while, she too stops returning your calls. you become the last survivor on a planet filled with people that talk and walk through you.
I feel like I am sometimes accompanied by an alien reflection of myself, giving me confidence and speaking the words that the humble human has trouble releasing. the stranger takes away the pain and helps me through the changes and the long lonely walks. this is not an admission of failure; this is a retreat, into the spaces where metamorphosis was once possible. straight away, I have to thank her for this. she made me realize that I needed to return to serenity and into the comfortable cocoon of away.
This is the phase of painless change with strange and amazing complications. It will be a trip.
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