"Hard to keep your nose clean when you're blowin' it every day"
"The trenches of memory are dug deep, and filled with bodies"
Guilt, self-loathing, and self-punishment are lacking in that they do not afford others the chance to deride you from atop whatever personal precipice they've chosen as an ivory tower, and no objective punishment is ever fully concluded until "another" passes their judgment upon "you", no matter what devils dance behind your brow.
We know, that is, I and my sorrowful brethren, kindred in black blood and selfish teeth, that our own deluded self-punishment is far more effective, as we can only See and Feel what the film of our eyeful consciousness allows. I have a sense of pride and self-worth, but only because like a blade to a whetstone do I routinely grind the imperfections down to something cold and mean. Within every boulder precarious lies in wait a daniel or orpheus to come rocketing to sunlight, chiseled and finished, finite in its infinity.
I have been lectured on "wasted potential" for now nigh on 25 years (being 30 this coming June). At which point does this bullshit symptomatic phrase cease having any actual relevance in re: someone's "potential" (as defined by authority figure [including but not limited to lovers and friends]) and becomes only a declaration of someone's character (or said someone's character's inherent "flaws", and I saw "flaws" only with a grinding of teeth because seriously you can all go rot in hell. My potential is firestorm, is apocalyptic, is talismanic claw display, and I have no interest to indulge in such just yet, but if you really deem it necessary, by all means, push me), and how another chooses to digest that supposed fault in your own character? If I have shown no signs thus far of engaging this "potential", why guilt me into seeking it out hence? Perhaps it needs to remain undisturbed. Perhaps it never existed in the first place, and you are putting far more faith into my faculties than I would ever deign worthwhile. Who's wasting whose time here? My time is certainly being wasted, and I expect to be paid back in full. There are no free rides. Gas, grass, or ass. Instant karma's gonna getcha.
I had one of those falling-into-sleep visions recently, when your mind is finally freed of the boring concreteness of the day, and chooses instead to relish in the inert abstractions represented thusly in your dream-state, and it was about bleached beauty and venom. I would sever an arm to regain the poetic wings upon which I sailed for those last few moments of early morning awakeness, for the words which I unfairly paired, which sparkled like gems, a rotten tomb of tumors blessed with that specialized phosphorescent bacteria which causes the decomposing to glow like Ezekial's wheel above the profane earth, the same wonder in snails and snapdragons that are so largely more profoundly handsome than our fumblingly sick gestures, rendering any pride we may have carried in our deluded spines to nothing more than electrical impulses dancing down tired synapses and making a ghost's lonely wagon jolt.
Saddest thing I have ever said, in response to the suggestion that I need to find someone worth caring for, as if I have not already stretched my atrophied limbs to their breaking point upon everyone else's bullshit cross, and left so many worthwhile angels in my bloody pariahal wake: "If I start caring about someone, I'll have to start caring about everyone".
And why the fuck aren't I getting paid to write yet? Probably just gonna have to kill myself, because everything is taxing, and the payoff seems delayed.