graveyards

The skeletons in my closet have been rattling recently, and at a very unfortunate time, too. As a result I've been even worse than usual and officially become an insomniac (before I just had issues getting to bed). I've started going to sleep at sunrise for a few hours. Awesome.

It's hard because as much as the past hurts and lurks and haunts and shouldn't have happened in the first place, how I was raised and all the messed up stuff that's happened to me for being so young have made me who I am. So although I don't have it all together and I have issues with hiding my scars behind trivial ramblings in public, as cliche as it is: I'm happy with who I am as a person. I'm not perfect, but at the base of who I am... I just wouldn't want to be anyone else. Shit happens and I just need to get back to the usual cycle of things.

It's funny, the hardest person to confront is yourself. It's so cliche and slightly melodramatic, but so true. If there is no stability in your life, it's scary to think about what confronting yourself can do to you. I'm no scientist, but from what I understand the confrontation of two unstable forces probably doesn't result in perfect harmony. Most of us hide behind facades or half-truths or avoidance or fear or drugs or books or booze or pain, but if there's serious shit you're trying to ignore it just consumes everything you fixed and more. I've broken the same promise to a lot of people that are close to me in recent weeks and I'm set on remedying what I can come monday. Or Tuesday. Soon.

I need a vacation. People are absurd. I recently wrote somewhere that I wish I could be a truth warrior-- dishonesty is an epidemic spreading through society.

"I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out looking, with its hooks, for something to love. I am terrified by this thing that sleeps in me all day long. Its soft feathery turnings, its malignity."
-Sylvia Plath

"If it is to come, she said,
sleep must take me unawares
while I am laughing or dancing
so I do not know that brutal place
where I lie down with cattle prods,
the hole in my cheek open.
Further, I must not dream
for when I do I see the table set
and a faltering crone at my place,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes
as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.

I must not sleep
for while asleep I'm ninety
and think I'm dying.
Death rattles in my throat
like a marble.
I wear tubes like earrings.
I lie as still as a bar of iron.
You can stick a needle through my kneecap and I won't flinch.
I'm all shot up with novocain.
This trance girl is yours to do with."
-Briar Rose, Anne Sexton