People want something easy to read. They want something digestible within the parameters of their world view. They prefer that which doesn’t challenge any preconceived notions of right and wrong. They want truth, but without any perceivable hardship.
Truth can be found everywhere, is a thing I relay to myself. Truth is the unmistakable sound of the tender clutter that belies itself. Truth is your version and my version and each and everyone’s version bundled into shared existential hurt.
Truth as I know it revolves around a brute desire to feel different. I genuinely do not want to see the world the way I see it when I am alone and sober. Im haunted by my own invalidity, and I am terrified of the truth that lies behind my eyes.
In fits and starts, my psyche crumbles under the weight of the sweltering heat, for there are so few bounds to which true pain knows. It can swim and dive and gallop through your ribs in sobs that feel so heavy they leave your body noiselessly. I feel it in my bones and in my hair and in the little lines that curve along and hug the corners of my mouth now. I just want a little more, is what I want. It’s what I’ll never understand, how I can desire, and relentlessly so, more, more, more, there is no way to stop my desire, it’s a runaway train. I want more, more, more, MORE… even though they are begging me to stop, they say if I stop I’ll get better.
But the tick, tick, ticking of the clock resembles to me much closer to the words, “more, more, more”.
