XXX.10.008 : Pan's the name. Petering out's my game.

"I'm so sick of tests.  Go ahead and flunk my ass."

I'd really like to get away from it all-- there's something about the closed door that tells me 'The decision's been made.  You have no part in this.'

I feel like I need to pack up and take off.  I want a clean slate.  No ties; I want to take the raw materials and tie them together myself.  I want to do it my own way and I don't care anymore what others think.  I don't care to be flexible; I don't care to be a good boy.

I don't need college to make me smarter-- I'd thought I'd proven myself already through twelve years of litany; I don't get this.  I don't want to be doing this.  I want to be alone; I want to hovel and hermit away and build my own metropolis, my own Utopia.  I think I just might.

Here I am again-- trying to defy the indefiable.  Writing in the EXACT SAME notebook I gave up on a year ago.

A ghost of my past sits to my right-- and yet, it was I who chose to sit here.  I left the present, and found myself again in the past.  It seems I can not run forward if I am constantly denying the present; this leaves nowhere to flee but into the past-- and therein lies dementia, schizophrenia, and cyclical, self-fulfilling prophecies of impending doom.

The ghost in my play has spoken.  He says he thought I'd left town.  I did.  I've never been in this world.  He says school's not supposed to be fun.  He says he procrastinated until the last weekend, like me-- and he pulled it off with a 99%-- like I could have.

'Good luck to you.'

This your last year here?

Yes.  No.  Maybe.  I don't know.

He is gone now-- should I be sitting where he was just moments ago?

All that is left is the dissipating warmth.

I want to run away again, and
(Burned out, turned off)
I say I don't know why, again.

'I thought you were a pretty good student-- that you couldn't have left for that reason.'

I don't like this world.  I don't like my role in it, I don't like for the path to be so heavily-tread.

He's going to Chicago-- living with his parents is a joke.  Work will be full-time.  School is part-time.

Can we be the Film Noir anti-hero and anti-heroine together?
Can we be the drifters, the ghosts, the unseen?
I want to run away again;
I say I don't know why again.
I'm rememb'ring and forgetting again.
I'm lying and slowly dying again.

But ah, oh-- flight of fancy!:
to be lying and slowly dying--
this is the dream I live.
These are the worlds I create.

My cloak, my dagger, my doomsday
clock, ticking away--
this is the day to thrive.

Yet I choose to hide away.
A long distance to run, today.

Burned out; turned off--
no place is secret or sacred.

Ribs plied open-- empty space bare;
feast for starving eyes.

And I:
chained, immobile-- I:
witty specimen.
Pick my brain apart again.

Leave me to seep and evacuate;
shuck off oldskin--
rise from the carpet of dead leaves and ashes
all cloaked in loam and permafrost.

Frightful, speeding
flight to the North--

to dens and caves of watery ice.

Here is Home for now--
until I'm found alive again.

We artists must slyly craft our guise
to fool unfettered, probing eyes--

until we're found alive, again.
Breathing and thriving outside, again.

Until we're found alive.

There's a voice inside my head
(liar; flick'ring, sliver-tongued serpent)
which tells me to pursue, pursue--
capture, intrude, defeat--
but I ignore him.

Instead, I choose
to lavish upon you--
instead, I elect
to lock gazes with you,
communicate some torrid message
of communicable autocorruption
(sparks betwixt irises brown, blue--)
I want to share experience with you.

Nothing left to extrude.

September reminds me of my mortality:
every year, it begins again.

When the Winter months come, I huddle down, ready:
come the gloom, come the solitude--
we wait, we convalesce,

I alone protrude
into some darkness, that
"certain kind of sadness"
to which we've all become addicted;

Call me crazy, call me a loon,
but
all I want is you.
All I want is your joy,
your cavorting, thrott'ling

seizures of metered, allotted
reverence, complacency; your
sanctuary of arms and loving embraces

(understanding)

:

taut, toned, muscled finely and with
purpose,
portent,
and all things manly
(all things sane and clean and lovely)

:

I want to be resolute.
Please love me for a moment

(or two).

for the sweetest time, i thought you'd be mine.
now i pine for beryl-agate eyes.
but i fear the pinfire, the flash, are lies;
my dreams breed falsehood into my life.

I was going to write a letter to you,
but I'm far too inebriated
to even begin to be able to.

Can I come spend some
time with you; are you not so busy
to pay me mind for a minute or two?

I sit here, removed
(lying to myself, loudly filling the room)
from all aspects Human.

There is a dry humor
which I'm inclined to adopt--
to dine upon, to occupy--

but the dryness of this wine
has me thinking of you:
horrorshow: rained-out visions

and the like protrude
from my sulfite-demeanor; the
California in me-- fermented

and bastardized little gob of fruits--
has a thing (or two)
to say: if indeed you choose

to delay these proceedings, these
gay-happy meetings of cerebral mishaps
and neurons firing in the wrong direction;

if indeed we elect to err from truth,
to proceed with such misguided cautions
and caustic fits of normality, banality--

then let's forget we've a single,
jeweled thing between us.
Let's forget the night you propositioned;

let's forget my immediate denial,
and the regret that followed a moment after.
Forget the four drops in an Ocean

of Time and searing Salt
(like electric glass making love to my wounds)
which have brought our spinning frames

no closer.  Forget it all; wobble
on your axis, and perhaps we will
fall into one another, some day;

I'd love you,
I'd love you,
I'd love you.

Underneath; Precious Illusions; Everything; Simple Together; That I Would Be Good; 8 Easy Steps; So Unsexy; Still; Crazy

I can't sleep.  I keep reaching for my phone; it's a lifeline, it's a connection to the outside (it's a distraction).  I have my headphones in, my iPod on (product placement?) and Alanis Morissette is playing over and over and over.  This is the first time I have ***** to try to fall asleep; is the fact that it's not working a good thing, a bad thing, or just a simple matter of fact?

Should I call into work tomorrow?  I don't want to go, but that's nothing new.  If I call in, though, they might suspect that something's wrong.  And though something probably is wrong, I don't like to mix work life and my personal life.

Should I go out running?  Not unless I call in to work.  But why not?  It might tire me out, it might help me sleep.  Sleep, however, may be a lost cause at this point.

*** will not talk to me ("I should have loved a thunderbird instead").  I try to tell myself that my preoccupation with him is unnecessary, and that he is not real, that he is not really there-- because we have never met.  I feel like I have been here before, and I most likely have-- and if I have, then maybe I am living that classic "definition of insanity."  It all feels new, though maybe it's the phenomenal aspect and not the noumenal aspect that seems new; it all certainly feels familiar, though the details and the specifics of this circumstance are different (or are they?  is it a trick?  is it all some kind of illusion?).

I keep hoping *** has contacted me, but what would that do for me?  I keep telling myself that I need to learn to let go of things (certain things, things I obsess over, things which are immaterial or illusory or impermanent; things which cause suffering due to my own personal desire or my ego's expectations of the material world [what the fuck am I even talking about?]), but I think I also have a problem with burning bridges and "letting go" of things in an insincere, self-serving way; as a defense mechanism; as a means of avoidance.  I was hoping not to have to let go of ***, I was hoping to not
have
to let go
of anything;
but here I am again, without an old friend
to comfort me;
I am my own old friend, and I'm getting sick of entertaining myself;
I have overstayed my own goddamn welcome.

I wish someone else would invade my goddamn head.

I still can't sleep, and the **** I've ***** has already escaped my prefrontal cortex and my kidneys, and it looks like I'll go on thinking until my death; sleep is not going to come tonight.  Sleep is not going to be anything but an illusory, momentary, impermanent and false relief.  I don't even dream anymore-- or if I do, I'm not remembering my dreams, unless I am in some way altered when I happen to fall asleep.

This will probably all be erased soon.

Everything Feels Fake (there is blood in nothing)

Not a mean drunk, but
a sad schmuck, and I'm
stuck inside my own head.

I'm not a madman,
but quite a sad man--
longing for timely death.

What lights could hope to
find our rites, and bring
them rightly to the fore

Of your consciousness;
some wandering bliss;
why search when there's no more?

Take me down into
these oceans of blue,
and rend me asunder.

If our lives are true--
if me, then you--let's
echo as the thunder.

In time, we will find
ourselves and our souls--
gone sour, gone crazy, gone

Towards some great end:
we're lonely (maybe
crazy) we're lovely,

We're friends.  Though we can't
claim divinity;
though we can't claim amends--

Let's fall down, now;
let's confound, now;
let's let this be the end.