Lizard skin

I thought long and hard whether or not to publish this disjointed entry at all. As it stands, it's a rather far cry from anything coherent; rather, an amalgamation of sporadic, splintered internal dialogue over a vast amount of time. A fairly one-sided affair; a dark counterpart to balance those much appreciated rays of light that do in fact permeate my life as well. Take it as such.

These walls shapeshift from a fortress to a prison and back. They echo with familliar voices and hide familliar faces in the dark corners. Beautiful things creep from the shadows on all fours, whispering foul truths, taunting me. I snarl and spit at the mirror, paint a cynical grin on my lips and sow my mouth shut. Ready for another day.

I leave this sanctuary with an attitude that used to be far more optimistic. As it fades, I find myself losing touch with pieces I've considered essential to the polyptych that comprises yours truly. In some way I suppose I'd like to give myself at least the freedom to dream, but the decision not to let that bullshit factory on my shoulders take the reigns is a healthier one. The world is grey, bleak and ill-spirited, its occupants likewise, so outside and within, I will be a mirror for the monochrome landscape surrounding me. A face in the crowd, a burning soul covered by ice-cold skin. My eyes flaccid and my words vague. I will adapt.

I honestly don't like myself very much in this mindset nor am I particularly proud of the way I've behaved towards certain people, but it's a better alternative to hearing my skin tear. My imagination takes flight, but I catch it mid-ascent, rip out its tongue mid-sentence and leave it lying on the floor without a chance to fill my field of vision with its rainbow hues. If this is what I need to do to survive, so be it. My temperature will keep falling to sustain me in this climate. I will adapt.

Collisions in darkness. Some are good, most are irrelevant. People I've never met before probe me as strange beasts are often probed. Questions are left unvoiced, but I know they're there. Behind smirks laced with shallow curiosity. Expressions of cautious interest buried behind nervous laughter. Don't worry if it fades. We probably won't remember one another in the aftermath. I made an impact. So what. I still sleep alone.

I've poured maggots into my wounds, grinding my teeth as they devour the pus one drop at a time. I bleed cleaner, but before you stands a hollow man. Eaten out. The blood flows freely, but my heart rate is borderline comatose. I've worked too hard to let you tear these wounds open again. Still, I know I would let you do it in a heartbeat, should my defenses fall. Should I have any reason to believe it were worth it. Even for a second. I would give you that chance.

My eyes don't lie, and I know you'll see every ounce of the fire inside if I let it shine through. No one wants it and no one can handle it, or at least that's what I keep telling myself. So I'll care for you and about you behind the curtain, hoping you'll never notice. My outward face will be cold, detached, dismissive. I'll hide my eyes and swallow my words, giving you the opportunity to return the favor. To be cold and detached, to dismiss me. Believe it or not; it's for your benefit. Because isn't that better for the both of us? Better for everyone? To keep every emotion muted and under wraps? Perhaps. Whatever logic resides behind my actions, its machinations come clear only after the fact. I was better equipped to keep people close yesterday than today, better still the day before.

Either way, there is a very clear disconnect between what I want and how I express it. Much like there is a rift between having at least a measure of genuine feelings for someone and the way I let them know it. That being ass backwards. I like you, so I'll punch you in the face and steal your Barbie.

And the fact that I am aware of this? Hoo-fucking-ray. It changes nothing, because the ruleset remains unaltered. The playing field would be just as convoluted without this tidbit of obtuse perception. I'm hungry for a connection and starving for something below the surface, but it's all face value and skindeep girth. People can be so scared of candour I want to stab them to see if they bleed fluff. Give them but a glimpse of something more profound and watch them regress into infancy. They're out of their depth with just a toe in the water. But it's cool. Whatever, man, whatever. Rock & roll.

I'm dissuaded by the threat of being disappointed before it even comes to pass. Unwittingly and unwillingly I push people away before they have a chance to do the same. Disappearing from their view is becoming second nature. I am in an alien place within and without, unable to trust anyone with anything, because everyone is full of lies. It's all wordplay, misdirection, twinkly toes and cowardice. There is no place for me in your world. No place for you in mine. Still I wander, searching.

Even small islands of momentary breathers are subject to the whims of the waves. Someone, I forget who, muses on the things we tend to let slip through our fingers, how it's a fear response via the desire for self-preservation, yet leaves us wanting and often even more vulnerable. I nod with a visage of understanding, gripping my jaw as I refrain from retorting how apt I am in this field. My experience in letting things slip is formidable. It is where I excel.

A true magnate of misdirection, I respond to warmth by letting instinct overtake me in the blink of an eye. My skin is thick and slippery, my movement fast and precise. I evade. With each passing day I fade further into the shadows. My face towards you, eyes locked, ever smiling, I am backing away from you. This detachment tends to register as nothing out of the ordinary, as my masquerade seems to fool most into thinking we're of the same species. That we share a common tongue. If only it were so.

Still, I know much of this is on me. I am inconsiderate to the point of parody, as it is never willful. It is in hindsight when I realize who or what was trampled on. The blood on my boots is always dry by the time I notice it. The fact that I do notice it is beside the point. It is superfluous insight. Nothing to write home about. The fact that I can identify this pattern of incidental indiscretion from a wealth of past experience makes me even more of a fool. A slave to nothing, yet bound by so many fears.

Tell her, comes a whimper from something lying on the floor. Keep at least one door open before they're all sealed shut. I rise to my feet and dig my heel into its soft flesh. I place a hand on its mouth firmly and respond with one resounding, resolute word.

No.

Nights in a city of glass

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if and how much the past six months have changed me. So many things learned, relearned and reorganized. Two thirds of my life's building blocks thrown into a cement mixer with a fickle mind. It spits out one thing or another when the mood happens to strike, often with no warning. The amount of intake and outpour is quite a spectacle.

There I am, there I go, the self-proclaimed man of clay with bits and pieces ripped off and tacked on with alarming regularity. Fresh off another wipedown of my not-so-shining-anymore armor, inked with another new set of cuts and dents. That armor has lost much of its luster, but it still has strength and presence. An ample target, no doubt. My robes are torn and my sword got stuck in its sheath a long time ago, but I refuse to discard these tattered trinkets. They are quite integral, though sometimes even I make the mistake of labeling them a nuisance.

With the assumed role of an observer, I take to watching people on the prowl. A strange dance. Friends and lovers who don't deserve to be called either. Awkward yet methodical steps around one another's trust and respect, disgusting self-deceit to justify personal fulfillment, a constant mismatch of cravings leading shadowed faces to exclaim: this will do. Desire wrapped in a very ugly package. I mirror what I see against my own modus operandi. The end result has a tendency to make me feel sick. People are dogs. Soft to the touch yet violently unpredictable. Selfish beasts of paradox, scared and confused. I'm trying to be something else. Statistically I must be successful at least on occasion.

People have their agendas and are quick to trample over one another to reach whatever they're striving towards. I'm too weary to mind the former and too wary not to be expecting the latter, yet caught off-guard surprisingly often. Some unforeseen occurrence draws me into an equally unforeseen chain of events. Eyes meet and heartbeats go from tick to thump. It sparks something inside, but I'm a bit too fargone to succumb to delusions, no matter how grandiose. My immediate impulse is to tie my tongue and walk away before a glass wall breaks. Before the stem sprouts thorns. But I can't. I'm so preoccupied with being Mr. Nice Guy I forget how easily things go tits up when you expressly strive for the opposite. Things sort themselves out accidentally or by sheer luck of the draw. Rarely for the best, though that's mere assumption.

But let it be said that I am no one's fool if not my own. I've noticed that I have grown a bit of a habit of painting myself up as some sort of stick figure adhering to Charlie Chaplin's immortal Tramp; accident-prone and warm-heartedly mischevous, but never guided by ill will. Duckwalking from one whoopsie to the next. But you can't blame the balcony for the fall if you're the one constantly dangling over the edge. I may be a stick figure to most people - many of whom seem to never grow tired of marveling at my musical exploits or this journal, for example, and how nothing melds fluently with their cardboard cut-out concept of who I am - but one would assume I'd know better. Perhaps I'm delusional after all.

A girl with angel eyes faintly glistening with well-hidden optimism listens to my stories and calls me naive. Her voice has a touch of frost, but the punctuation has a sweet undertone. It signifies a measure of understanding, though perhaps somewhat reserved. I do not miss a beat in joining her exclamation in delightfully bittersweet unison. We continue to uphold the harmony with a shared laugh, though both refrain from pulling a veil over the tones of cynisism shadowing our joint vocalization. A rare stroke of honesty or an act akin to giving up? You decide. I'm out of mental juice, tired of thinking about thinking, passively content in conducting another vain exploration of what I want by dragging my droopy eyes across the floor. Passionately unfulfilled.

I tell her I'm damaged goods and laugh, forgetting that such a punchline doesn't really serve its purpose as a deterrent when fact is draped in humor. But at least it's poignant. Or... at least I hope it is? Because I am, you know. Fubar. A point well worth noting.

Later, I find myself enveloped by some Hollywood rendition of romance. My guise is that of gleeful detachment, at least at first. Scenes flow from one to the next and I begin to recognize more than my fair share of lines from the poetry in motion on display. The two people kiss each other so passionately it has a whisper of desperation. Enough fervor to make mountains crumble. They latch onto one another like drowning people hugging a piece of driftwood. The joyless in me wants to dismiss such sights as melodramatic and proportionless, but I know they're not. I remember sensations like that. Moments when the world disappeared. I remember. Faintly and from a distance, yes, but still.

I half-jokingly told a friend that I seem to be inflicted with some sort of emotional shortcoming that expressly prohibits me from reaching any measure of happiness, yet it simultaneously imbues my desire to continue the search for such a state with neverending vigor. A true Catch 22 if there ever was one. Again, the punchline would fare better if not hindered by a factual backbone.

To another friend I retorted a piece of internal dialogue one succumbs to in the late/early hours of the looming dawn. While looking for one thing you mistake something else as its tail and in the process become even further entangled in the machinations down the rabbit hole. Something about misshapen desires and a pair of overly eager feet ready to pounce towards a light shining in the night. Might be a beacon or the glint of a predator's eye - you'll never know until you step out to find out. To my recollection I phrased it quite well, so I'll refrain from reiterating too much, as to not spoil it.

Still, the principle has substance and sustenance. There is an idea behind that which is formless; an encrypted manuscript. A voice as loud as it is incoherent. Blinding stabs of white noise born from desire without direction.

The wolf howling at the moon for he knows of nothing else, then? Perhaps. At least for now. At least for tonight.

Blood inside

Rarely have I felt as adrift.

And I had such a good run there for a while, despite the little sandbox dramas that flared up from time to time. It was good. Things happened, feces and fans found one another and everything was vibrant. I liked the fevered pace and the feeling of not knowing what'll happen next. A surprisingly addictive way of toddling through the days, though mostly in hindsight. A different kind of disappearance at sea.

Carefree is another word for inconsiderate, I admit, but it sure beats playing the patsy. Like a lovestruck child, I've allowed myself to be overpowered by the desire for a human touch at the expense of my own integrity and pride. This form of vulnerability is alien to me, yet it hasn't stopped me from opening myself up for a few brand new puncture wounds. I'd like to say my habit of sticking my neck out is a quality worthy of praise - nay, I'd like to think that. But it's not. It's stupid. Stoo-peed.

There is a melody playing in my head, but I'm trying to do it justice by thumping the keys with boxing gloves on. My heart is planted on my sleeve as firmly as ever, but it sways my stride and makes me lose touch and tempo. It makes me unpredictable.

I express myself with the subtlety of a pink battleship as I stumble over my own tongue to get from here to the next disharmonious moment. Being passionate and being restrained has become somewhat of a barren land peppered with pitfalls of tension, awkwardness and stuttering punctuation. It's ground I'm traversing through with idiot savant efficiency like a headless chicken let loose onto a minefield. I don't know where I'm going, but the journey sure could be a bit less of a walk of shame. Well, at least there's consistency.

One would imagine that if your heart isn't exactly in pristine condition, it wouldn't come as such a surprise when the person you've exposed it to begins to backtrack in unison with your advance. There is logic there, symmetry even. I should be able to see it. But no. Deep down I expect the action itself to warrant a favorable outcome, because deep down I live in a fantasy land where candour is rewarded for its own sake. Where the word Veritas tattooed on my arm has absolute, resounding relevance. Where the birds sing and the heavens shine as gems of truthfulness escape my lips. But my timing is off. I'm in the wrong key. I'm the village idiot mumbling through Danny Boy, none the wiser.

It's ironic. I'm becoming more and more cautious in social situations and surprisingly substantial parts of me have fallen under lock and key - a development I'm honestly very sad about - yet it doesn't seem to deter me from donning the crown of a most royal fuck-up whenever the opportunity should arise. And believe you me, such opportunities seem to present themselves like an overgrowth of weeds in an untended garden.

I exhale, words appear, something becomes exposed. A small shock overtakes me. My immediate impulse is to swallow every syllable back into my lungs and undo the fact that I've just rendered myself skinless. Instinct takes over and I forget the world isn't all flesh and teeth. The facade is better, because the truth is violent. Antagonistic. It steals the sound from your mouth and punches the gusto from your gut. If it's all the same, I'd rather spare you the torment. And in doing so, spare myself of... other things.

That's the theory anyway. Practice? Well... See the headless chicken analogy above. I have a strange craving for companionship, to understand and be understood, yet I'm growing increasingly terrible at expressing it. It's nearly comedic.

My eyes dart nervously around the room as I attempt to escape my own mind, hungry for yet another round of rewinding and reenactment. Thanks, I retort, but I already lived through the embarrassment and discord. No need for a rerun. But I can't help myself. A cold spike begins its advance up my spine and we are underway. The buffoon revels in the memories of his botched performances upon the soiled stage, bringing the proceedings to a close with a quiet monologue of having nothing to show for it all, least of all wisdom.

I'll manage of course. Find a way for all the pieces to fit. I always do. There are more than enough vessels at my disposal for me to express and expose without expressing and exposing. Much like I'm doing right now. I need to do this not to implode. I understand that now. I see it in a different, harsher light than before. A colder truth, but also brighter. Purifying one's internal clockwork isn't a science but an art - which, I assume, is why creativity is its most effective form - and you can never know what else you'll wash away in the process, but I'm quite sure I'll still recognize myself as I pop out from the other end. The real question is whether or not this search can be completed alone. I'm not exactly sure that's the case.

Having put it like that, I'm suddenly less bewildered by these appetites. I'm missing something. That entails the desire to search. A quiet touch of something genuine, without trade. Something real from someone real, someone who isn't terrified of bearing a bit too much without being silenced by fear or restraint. Something I can call both shared and mine, mutually inclusive.

Yeah. Something like that.

The anatomy of cowardice

To be honest, I don't really want to write this down, yet I feel I must. Better out than in, as they say.

Some time ago I had a very brief, very carnal relationship with a lady who happened to be the former girlfriend of a guy I know. The fling had very little impact on anything and we parted ways after no more than an eyeblink. Yet because of little else than the desire to instigate worthless drama on the part of the other players, I've had to deal with a myriad of bullshit and bad blood for weeks because of this little stroll down flesh avenue. I suppose these people have such boring lives they feel justified in trying to spice up the tedium by going completely overboard on the emotional front.

The manchild in question has now upped the ante on this farce and my blood is boiling. Things have escalated to the point where this petulant, spineless little waste of flesh is doing his hardest to blacklist me in the eyes of our shared circle(s) of friends. His modus operandi for accomplishing this? By lying his ass off.

I assume he feels I had a part to play in the dissolution of his relationship, which is completely untrue. Regardless, he continues to dwell on me with incredible persistence, trying to bullshit his way into the head of anyone who will listen. He appears to be able to completely ignore the fact that I've made it painstakingly clear I want(ed) no part in the private affairs of this duo - even when one half of it wanted to break her promise of fidelity. My conscience is clear. Hers isn't.

In spite of this, the gent in question is trying to avenge some fabricated transgression he believes I'm guilty of by acting like a complete buffoon. The most ridiculous aspect is his attempts to undermine me by voicing rather stumbling backstab attempts to people who have far stronger ties to yours truly than this little pity magnet. His attempts to maintain a facade of him being a victim could've held up, I suppose, had he not resorted to dirty tactics right off the get-go. Perhaps his naivety has prohibited him from realizing that those very people he's been trying to poison would inform me about this person's spewage of vicious lies straight away. For a while there I found it little more than pathetic and thought no more of it, but when he decided to start involving other people in his fairytales, my well of sympathy and empathy ran dry in a heartbeat.

I had a unique experience with a certain girl some time ago, unique for me anyway, one I've written about many times. Uplifting one moment and embarrassing the next, things reached a boiling point of sorts and finally simmered down and faded into oblivion. I won't deny that my handling of the events was rather chaotic, even juvenile at times, but it served as a learning experience. I'm sad it ended the way it did, but what I've taken away from that is the five minutes of smiles and shared sanctuary. It is something that is mine and mine alone, a faintly glimmering jewel of a handful of joyful moments hidden deep in the back of my mind. No one has business commenting or speculating about it aside from the two people involved. End of discussion.

But when someone whose involvement in my private affairs is completely nonexistent drags my personal relationships - in this instance, particularly the one transcribed above - into his little web of lies designed to undermine my very essence and pour vitriol upon my persona for a measure of petty revenge, my cup runneth over. And for what? To paint a picture of me as some sort of insidious boogeyman out to rape and pillage other people's happiness? The absurdity of all this is overwhelming.

I still have strong feelings toward this lovely temptress and the fact that someone would try to piss on my shoes by attacking her integrity is below any and all standards in my book. The very thought of this spineless coward lying through his teeth about affairs he has no true knowledge of fills me with such wrath I need to steel myself not to punch holes in the walls. Never mind the fact that I've been nothing but a friend to this little bastard and that his imaginary escapades of seeing me as some sort of instigator of his personal problems is completely unfounded, the fact that he dared to drag people I hold in high regard into this mess of bitterness and lies offends me to my very core. They deserve better than that. So do I.

I don't enjoy harboring ill will towards anyone or wallowing in negativity. I don't like myself in this mindset, as anger has a funny way of narrowing one's view to the width of a needle's eye. I'm trying to take the high road by basically wiping this person's existence from my mind and ignoring him altogether. I can only hope that will be the only course of action I need to take.

Lion in winter

While you might not think it to look at me, I'm quite possibly the most optimistic poor sod you're ever likely to meet. Not one to comment on the glass as half-full, but rather someone who peers through the haze of adversity and disappointment with the mindset that something good will come of this. I approach, endure and leave every situation with the underlying assumption that it will work itself out for the best in the end, because after all, I'm never driven by any other force than the desire for the best possible outcome. How could this marriage of piety, auspiciousness and faith ever fail?

Insert laugh track here.

Still, this naive belief functions as the propulsion that keeps me moving from this day to the next, even though I fight not to let it transform into a concious thought with tooth and nail. It exists as the frayed edges around my view of the world. I expect the universe to meet candour halfway and reward purity of thought, even if my actions are sometimes worhty of little more than a slap on the wrist. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I'm really just pissing into the wind and mistaking the spatter on my face as a gentle offshore breeze.

Admitting such face value naivety makes me shiver first, then smile. This is who I am. For better or worse, this is it.

Unfortunately recent times have forced me to question if I've been foolish enough to once again put a considerable amount of time and effort - not to mention heart and soul - into ventures that will, ultimately, wither away into obscurity and leave me counting the days I could've spent working on something other than sand castles. I'd like to kid myself that every loose end will ultimately find a purpose, but that's hardly realistic. Expectations have been imposed upon me as a sort of ultimatum, filling the dead air with negativity and halting the advance of creative freefalling, something I consider an essential lifeline for any worthwhile undertaking. This has inspired me to yet again weigh my options with a heavy heart while trying very hard not to instinctively resort to my worn-out party piece - abandoning yet another collaborative endeavor. Yet I keep wondering how I'm supposed to prove myself to warrant a leap of faith in others without having to break my back to instill faith in that it's an exercise with merit.

Such foolish notions should have little power over me, as I'm far more self-reliant than most creative minds in my position and collaborations tend to be more of a welcome diversion from enterprises closed off to others. Yet this fresh set of visionary clashes has confused my compass enough to leave me spinning in circles for the time being. I know it is but an eyeblink in time, a blot of ink on the canvas as it were, yet I can't restrain my thoughts from wandering and question if I was simply too blinded by a desire to succeed to realize the futility of the effort. I tend to grow quite angry at myself if and when the cold shower of wasted time washes over me and hindsight transforms into a finger pointing at the undersigned for not picking up the signal sooner.

Peering back to make sense of the greater scheme, I feel I might've tied my hands with the rope of an illusion of setting very restrictive bounds for my creativity for the betterment of the end result. The truth being something of a mirror image of said perceived achievement. A bittersweet revelation; one that hides the wisdom it has to offer very, very well. I've been down this road before and confess to being none the wiser as to what kind of lesson I'm expected to learn. Ego has a part to play, I suppose, but I've never picked up the guitar or pen to glorify myself and I would never admit to having made creative decisions on the basis of pride alone.

As a strange counterforce, experiences like this serve as reassurance and strong reminders of why my best work has always stemmed from a singular, uncompromising vision with very little breathing room for anyone else's voice. It's a lonely existence and not without its daily challenges, but I wonder: could anything else truly be as fulfilling?

My fingers caress the fretboard and I feel her skin on my fingertips. She is equal parts flesh and smoke, a mirage of a living human being. My concentration shatters into pieces with but a thought of that smile. I get lost in her eyes. I laugh, shake off the visions with a shrug and convince myself yet again that allowing myself to revel in such imagery is a complete and utter mistake with no redeeming quality. And that, my friends, is indeed the inconvenient truth. A romantic mirror image of the creative whitewash I've just transcribed. She fills my thoughts and my hands fly wildly from side to side like I'm trying to kill a wasp. Away with you!

These are strange times. Everything flows into a great big pot of strange surprises, draining setbacks and happy accidents, making it an impossibility to distinguish between each ingredient and how they contribute to the end result. Trying to be pragmatic or philosophical about it is like asking the boat's anchor what its take on the nature of the storm is as the rain sweeps over the ship.

It can get quite taxing on one's psyche when the good and bad intertwine to the point where it's a delightfully fruitless exercise in hit-or-miss to even begin pondering what to take away from all of this. I am a hopeless explorer of hidden enlightenment and revelations, as my internal clockwork is wholly incapable of processing such patterns as shit happens. Yes, I am indeed very much aware of this, torn only between calling it a quality or flaw.

Often I forget if I am supposed or expected to play the protagonist, antagonist or simply an extra in a given situation, not to mention if my intended role was the one I ended up playing. Hard to explain and I'd imagine it's even harder to understand. I'm paraphrasing as usual, mainly because I'm more wary than ever of accidentally disclosing any information that has the potential to backfire in any way whatsoever. I can't change people's exuberant willingness to misinterpret, draw misshapen conclusions and find excuses to get offended, so I'll rather just keep my tongue on a short leash.

I won't deny that it would be a welcome change for things to unfold in a slightly less dramatic manner, if for nothing else than for the sake of variety. It does keep things in fluent motion broken by the occasional abrupt turn, which I suppose is a positive note. Disharmony is an enticing entity, very vibrant. Still, the occasional downward slope would do wonders to break the monotony of this constant uphill stride. My legs are getting tired.

But I didn't choose this path to scour away for even a momentary breather. Though more strength and resolution is demanded of me than I could've anticipated, I am grateful for the barrage. It is a sobering thought to realize how thick your skin truly is when the rocks start flying.

Destroyer of worlds

I close my eyes and see myself standing on a shoreline. The gentle whispers of the ocean encircle and envelop me, only to turn into ferocious screams that tear the skin from my flesh. My form is broken, yet I remain. Foaming spears of staggering rage turn into mysterious shapes of slumbering beauty in an instant. Then back again. I smile. Knowing this world has so many uncharted depths big enough to swallow each of us is not only fascinating; it is comforting.

Someone smiles. A serpent's tongue between crooked teeth. Stay away.

Setbacks are piled upon one another, to the point where I no longer know which slap has left the most enduring ache. Though I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway. I'm a lonely pin dead set in the middle of the aisle, the rumbling sound of the approaching bowling ball the only assurance that I'm still standing. After all, otherwise I couldn't be torn down. Fists raised, I back into a corner - only to realize there is no corner to cower in and my heels are pushing pebbles down another gaping maw behind me. There is no release.

The uneasy silence is broken by a bellowing noise of something crumbling down and disintegrating. I question myself at every turn. Each decision and aspiration is under constant, skewed scrutiny. My sleep is shallow, filled with dreams of betrayal under masques of friendly faces. I awake unrested and high-strung, awaiting confrontation. My hands shake with rage. Eventually something will give.

I paint faces on my mistakes and swallow down failure with a bitter smirk. I catch myself swimming in the memory of some recent collision I wasn't wise enough to dodge and my lungs expel a dry heave of a laugh. My glass is empty, so I spit in it. Blood. Hit me again. I dare you.

I reminisce about moments of shared sanctuary only to discover shadows of deception previously unnoticed. The man in the mirror begs me to learn from this.

My voice grows softer with every ounce of distrust and disdain amassing inside. I strive to be a greater mannequin of manners with every cold shiver of misantrophy, each stronger than the last. Distance drains my vocabulary one word at a time and I resort to instinctual communication. Such that leaves no discernable imprint and I can exit the situation without leaving a trace.

Perhaps I'm being tested.

This is why there is music in my life. Why a poet's words can pierce my heart. Why a mere whiff of uninhibited imagination allows me to grow wings. Why nothing is ever as fulfilling as bearing my soul through a lonely microphone. Why every note and melody brings forth colors and shapes behind my eyes.

It's why Wagner and Mussorgsky have the power to dismantle and rebuild me like a tattooed monster of Frankenstein. Why I need an hour or two to recover after hearing Colonel Kurtz's monologues in Apocalypse Now. Why Matthew Good's Weapon, The Black League's Winter Winds Sing, Massive Attack's Live With Me and Triptykon's My Pain hinder my ability to speak as my view becomes blurred by the beauty of their faces in my mind's eye. Why Thoreau's Walden makes my smile grow wide and my eyes water. Why I sometimes melt into the shadows just to enjoy the ringing sound of friends' laughter. Why I'm always surrounded by guitars.

Creativity. The one singular, sanctified, impenetrable essence no one can steal, quench or quell. It is mine.

I am no more its slave than it my servant. Neither needs to break their back to service the other, yet we are intertwined and inseparable to a sometimes painful degree. Our bond is forged by the most mysterious and elusive form of togetherness - we keep one another breathing.

Try and try again

I don't owe you an explanation. A strangely dangerous exclamation.

You have no idea who I truly am. A truth many seem to find hurtful, even though it's by no means my aim. It is something that could be remedied, but I suppose it's easier to take it as some sort of backhanded insult, embrace it bitterly and continue to uphold and maintain this fact. Still, I never utter such things with any other motive than being truthful (albeit to a naive degree; of this I am well aware). I realize I'm not the most eloquent or sensitive bastard when it comes such things, but the ensuing war of attrition tends to be something I'm never really prepared for. I suppose people think I'm more mean-spirited than could ever be true. A defense mechanism of sorts? I'll never know for sure.

Why do you care? A question I voice without innuendo or subtext, generally because I don't really have an agenda shadowing my output. Rarely if ever do I use window dressing to mince my words into a more easily digestible form. It's a strength as much as a flaw. If the question passes my lips, it does so with blue-eyed candour, never receiving the same in return. It is seen as a statement, even though I never think of it in such a way. Goes to show what an emotional tourist I can be, I s'pose.

Fight the urge. My mantra of late. Exercising self-restraint and listening to reason are furthest from my mind when all I want to do is let go, but the inescapable downpour far outweighs any potential rewards of following your instincts. True, it's not as fulfilling, but peace of mind is an invaluable commodity. And indeed rare. I'm trying very hard to steer clear of volatile situations, not to mention opportunities to stick my hand in the cookie jar. I'd like to kid myself that there would be no consequences, but I know better than that. Damn it, I do.

Walk away without a trace. A valiant effort for the sake of others when my warning lights begin to blink, but it never seems to come across in the way I intended. That old goblin of assumed declarations rears its ugly mug. These attempts are also rather susceptible to backfiring in surprising ways. Gems of dark humor; quite entertaining if you're not the punchline. But at least I'm trying.

It can't all be on you. Something I keep telling myself when one of the patterns above unleashes a snowball effect and all I can do is hold on for dear life. I'm honestly none the wiser why people can't let things be. Even less privy to why so many situations feel like I'm surrounded by fuses and my lap is full of liquid fire. Sooner or later a droplet will fall.

Tread softly, tread downwind. The few times I find myself in the company of others nowadays seem to be doomed to derail into a spectacle of weaponized wordplay, broken bonds and surprise attacks. Perhaps I lack the foresight to see them coming, or perhaps I am indeed losing touch with the most elementary of social skills. Still, calling these eventual and inevitable results unsettling is a contender for understatement of the year. The end result? I can speak only for myself. Emptiness.

Don't give them more ammunition. One of the more potent reasons why the undersigned isn't exactly the most open gent is because I know that divulging personal information grants others access to weak points. My weak points. I wish I could say I trust people close to me to not act in such a way, but as recent experiences have shown yet again, such notions would be little more than self-deceit. As for me, I don't go for the jugular. I simply won't. I can think of a million better ways of passing time than trying to wound someone with words, mostly because it's something I was once very skillful in. Now that the tables are irreversibly turned, such an attack always dazes me and is left to linger as a cloud of bewilderment over my head for days. I'm never ready for it. It makes every following attempt at sincerity that much harder. Something in me wishes to reiterate past yet fresh thoughtlings on echoes behind my back, but such uncomfortable revelations are in no need of rework and I'd rather spare myself the torment.

Grow cold. Detach. No. In spite of my sometimes overpowering instinct for self-preservation, at the end of the day I'd rather take the hits than shield myself from any situation with the potential to yield such an outcome. My life has changed dramatically in a short span of time, yet my surroundings - visitors and residents included - remain relatively unaltered. As a sum of its parts, then, it is indeed understandable how this can translate to communication breakdowns and even the disintegration of once shared common ground. Yet I must confess I'm trying to be a beacon of understanding for selfish reasons. Understanding is what I crave in return as well, though I certainly know I have a funny way of showing it. I'm simply tired of building fortifications when I'd rather try to find vigor in having the courage to be vulnerable even in the view of others. I don't want to feign strength like a wounded animal surrounded by predators.

Yet I wonder... what else is there to do?