Searching for the love of my dead dog everywhere, never going to find it. I wonder what Ralph did in the small backyard to aid the pain in his anxious little heart? Grew a tumour. I like to think he worked a few things out. I feel like him now, waiting for me to come home, listening for the car to pull into the driveway, a release, a relief.
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Life’s as if you awake from a dream, wanting to tell everyone you love them and miss them as well as all the answers, and they don’t listen, they’re just happy to see you, they just tell you to relax, and then you sift off into death again. And often a man is faced with the question, is he alive to save his mother from pain that would kill her, or because he wants to live?
We can dance between both, because she gave everything for you to be here, so give her what you can to stay, and when she is gone, let’s pray there is a reason just as noble. When a reason isn’t required, I hope I can share that love and joy with you mum.
The world says to men, don’t suffer in silence, and as soon as you whimper, the crowd leaves and if anyone stays, it’s to throw guilt on your flaming expression of pain. Nature, again, reminds me to take a deep breath and be patient. I have to go to nature for strength, to give to the lost, to help endure myself enduring others, to smile but feel the pain too. I wish it wasn’t true, I wish you could keep your innocence, I wish you didn’t have to delve into the flesh of recovered wounds because there’s a foreign chunk of metal stuck, that you need to re-walk a broken path to find what isn’t allowing things to flow like everyone else. People, others, only make me feel more insane. They are so quick to pass judgement, to correct me, but what if I was to return the favour? What if I was to dissect you? So I come to the white blank page and write what isn’t worth speaking, not because it shouldn’t be said, but it will only make me feel more misunderstood. So, either I am the only mad one here or the only honest one. Feels the same either way.
Do I bounce from woman to woman to silence the need to confront my mother issues?
No.
Speaking with a girl who is a therapist, as a friend, about any issue of your own is like asking an electrician to put in a downlight when he came over to watch the footy. In the end the world pays the people to help and creates someone who can’t, and even worse, they spend years in university, almost completely void of relatability to the common person, and then trying to fix them, to make them like them, an indoctrinated self-absorbed establishment loving idiot who thinks there is a way.
Now, I have to start questioning my own philosophies. That the meaning of life is to find something that makes you forget to ask. Expression. Music, poetry, love, art. But they want the pen, not the hand. They want the tune and not the musician. Crying at the beauty of a rain drop on a petal of a peach rose in no hurry to fall, holding the light within itself for a second of eternity. The same mind that creates stories, creates stories. A single lie is a spark that my imagination will burn entire villages down with. I am just so bored of lies, of bullshit. Maybe more so my own, but can we stop pretending? I can deal with a cunt, but I cannot handle a liar.
Suffer in silence Riley, it’s the bravest thing you can do. Let everyone be. Speak to god, the only bloke that will listen. If only they wrote a book for things like this. If only they created some form of code to follow and rejoice in so you can stop trying to find it in the brown eyes of a woman.
Everything is a bit messy now, I have altitude sickness on this plain of consciousness. I'm falling and grabbing everyone on the way down. This impulse. The creativity I nourish and encourage to be free shows itself in the real world. As if I'm in my own book, and all the characters are still in reality, with realistic reactions that didn’t even cross your mind. So weird, so far from normal that you can’t even pretend to be, it’s as if I don’t even know what normal is. Searching for the love of my dead dog everywhere, never going to find it. I wonder what Ralph did in the small backyard to aid the pain in his anxious little heart? Grew a tumour. I like to think he worked a few things out. I feel like him now, waiting for me to come home, listening for the car to pull into the driveway, a release, a relief.
I’m a man, placing half his chips on art and the rest on peace, I’ll win somehow, I’ll break even anyhow, I’ll be safe from nothing. I still hold hope that they are the same thing. I just don’t have anything to show for it right now, but this, and then maybe a sleep, a break from living. To wake up and hope the inner child, who currently lives on the outside, is a little less sensitive without being dead.
Never forget, my beautiful boy, when you were shattered and felt irreparable, you mustered up a haven within reality to feel at home. Now you sit, as if it’s your loungeroom, again no one but you. Adding someone to the peace to get by was never more than a desire. So let’s listen to the music, lets lay on that bed and if I am going to fall, then ill fall alone, ill fall asleep and maybe just float away some place a little nicer.
