posted on August 2, 2010 at 10:37 am by Khali
Power.
It took me a long time to grasp the notion that power comes from me. Let me rephrase. Other people only have power over me if I let them, and vice versa. Of course knowing this and using it are two totally different things.
It has also become equally apparent that I am susceptible to my low self esteem. I have an overwhelming, if not pathological need to be liked and have behaved in a manner one might call chameleonic to achieve this. The last ten years I’ve seen myself get better with this behaviour - as in I’m not as likely to do it, but there are times where I simply do not feel worth attention and I tend to isolate myself instead when I feel like that. So I create this circle of depression that I don’t quite know how to fix. However, they say that knowing is half the battle and I suppose that coming to terms with these facts - as tough as that is, is part of that.
I need to know where this lack originated. My mother’s experiences with uncovering key events in her childhood has made me curious about the things that happened in my past. I don’t recall a lot of my childhood and I don’t know if there are things I’m missing or if I have blocked them on purpose. Soul searching ensues.
Recently, all this came into play. I suppose I felt particularly vulnerable because I was stressing out, because J and I were falling into old patterns, because… it was so easy to rekindle old feelings that I let it go farther than it should have.
The road to hell, as they say.
listening to: Kosheen - Recovery
reading: Abundance - Sena Jeter Naslund
Posted in fiction maybe, journal | No Comments » | Tags: anatomy of pain, oh smeg, power politics
posted on March 7, 2010 at 12:34 pm by Khali
Do you dream?
Do you wake in the night with sweat on your brow, your heart thundering in your ears? Do you lay there, staring at the formless dark, daring it to take on shape as you struggle to recall the events that made your blood race through your veins and your breath catch in your throat? Of course you do. You have these nightmares just like the rest of us here in this dark province. You are just as much a shadow as the phantoms in your mind that clutch at your sanity in the wee hours of night.
You struggle out of bed, free yourself from the tangle of sweat-soaked sheets and stumble blindly to the bathroom, blink tears when you fumble the lights on. You brace yourself on the counter and will your breathing to ease, your heart to slow from its mad gallop so that you can focus, think about what it is you have seen. Your eyes adjust slowly, and by the time your vision is not impaired by the harsh yellow light you are breathing more like a normal man and not a prey animal. You peer at yourself in the mirror; the ordinariness of your surroundings, but you know, as surely as you know your own reflection, that there are things beyond all this ordinary that clamour to change reality. It is easier to face this fact in the light.
You take a deep breath and survey your figure; the lean lines of your naked torso in the yellow light; the stubble on your chin and the dark circles under your eyes that speak of your nocturnal odysseys into unknown spheres. You have so many questions and you know the answers do not lie in this bathroom. Nor in this suburb, nor in this city, but somewhere just as close. Close but other.
You’ve been dreaming in daylight now. You’ve seen some of the creatures from your nightmares on the streets, in the coffee shop where you get your latte in the morning. In the grocery store, the video store. They’ve been following you. Your dreaming mind is taking over your waking one. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself, but what if you’re wrong? What if that other place, that reality that exists in parallel with this one was breaking through? You shudder, brace youself again on the edge of the counter. You must be mad, it’s the only logical explanation.
There’s a knock at your door. Your flesh crawls with something akin to dread. You slip on your bathrobe and pad barefoot through the kitchen to the door. The clock on the microwave reads 3am. You peer through the blind on the door and see nothing. Part of you wants to back away from the door and crawl back into the warmth of your bed, but another is irritated that someone would dare knock at this time of night. Against your better judgement, you pull open the door.
“There had better be an emergency,” you growl.
“Oh, but there is,” says a voice and you blink, look down. Your visitor stands there, hidden in the shadows. She barely comes up to your chest and her features are drawn into an expression you can barely decipher as a grim frown. “Invite me in, there is little time,” she says. You hesitate, remembering something about vampires and thresholds. But you are bigger than she is and you are not dreaming.
“Come in,” you say and step aside. She enters, glances around and settles herself in one of your kitchen chairs. You do not sit, but stand where you are, allowing the door to click shut. “Who are you?” you ask, not caring that your voice sounds harsh even in your ears.
“I am a messenger,” she says evenly.
“Do you have a name?”
“I have many,” she replies and you clench your teeth.
“Why are you here then?” you ask, trying another tack.
“To give you a message.”
“Naturally, since you’re a messenger,” you snap. “What is it then?”
“The world as you know it is in grave danger,” she says. “and you are the only one who can stop it.” You pause and hear yourself laugh a little: a snort of laughter that sounds loud and harsh in the silence.
“You’re being melodramatic. I’m no hero and you’re a lunatic,” you say, tying your robe tighter, you gesture to the door. “Get out.”
“They said you would be rude and unconvinced,” she replies, but does not budge from the chair.
“Who are “they” and why me?”
“They are the Oracles. It has been foretold that a mortal will be the one to save the Twin Worlds from annihilation. They believe that you are that mortal.”
“Why?”
“You have been dreaming, have you not?” she asks and her voice is suddenly gentle. You feel yourself falling - not physically, but inside; all the pieces of your nightmares and waking dreams falling into a pattern. Your gasp is loud in the early morning silence. You find yourself on your knees and the tiny woman is smiling sadly at you.
“Yes,” she says. “You are indeed the one.”
listening to: Collide - Halo
Posted in Fiction, Sidhe, Writing, fiction maybe | No Comments » | Tags: an alternate reality, fragments, muse, surreal, Writing
posted on October 31, 2009 at 3:24 pm by Khali
Posted in fiction maybe, journal | Enter your password to view comments | Tags: grief, just maybe, little black raincloud
posted on October 7, 2009 at 10:24 am by Khali
You believe in what nobody else does
In your mind theres no time and a constant buzz
So disregard the master plan
It’s a disaster man you better ride it out
I can see it all in your eyes
Your future fades, your minutes are few
When the angels make contact with you
You believe in what nobody else does
And things ain’t the way they was
A fool like you is a freak to me
It’s unique to me, what you seek to see
I can see it all in your eyes
Your future fades, your minutes are few
When the angels make contact with you
I’ve seen the future isn’t pretty
Killer instinct, love a surprise
Make a stop, build a fire
Hold you breathe, cover your eyes
The tides are turning crimson
Nightfall growing like a cancer
Feeding on your broken body
Isolations not the answer
Listen what the wind says softly
Sound of traffic, smells like paper
Kisses on your worried eyelids
Sleepless nights turn into vapor
Like a dream and as the crow flies
Must reject the pain your trapped in
Give me all your hard earned beauty
Now I’ll tell you what will happen
Your day will fade and your thoughts will jade
And you’ll wake up in the middle of a dream
Coming up on hard luck, with a moment of silence
And no time to kill, no reason to care
Beware
I can see it all in your eyes
Your future for a dime, anytime
I can see is all in your eyes
Your future for a dime, anytime
I can see it all in your eyes
Your future for a dime, anytime
Your future fades, your minutes are few
When the angels make contact
[When Angels Make Contact - Matt Mays]
So what if she wakes late on weekends, at least she waits until after noon to pour her first drink. At least she cleans the litter box and and does the dishes from the night before before she settles into her chair with her drink and her book. This is all she wants, really. Time to do a little escapism into the realms of fantasy, time to be creative. It seems nowadays she needs more time that usual to unwind from the trial of the week: work. She used to like it, but when the addition of more responsibilities the joy has gone out of it and it’s become one giant demand of her resources. The status of her relationships have suffered recently and that has also stressed her out. By the time saturday rolls around she is exhausted.
She has to take time to think. It takes more time now but she thinks she can answer his question. He can’t get her out of his mind because enough time has passed for things to become idealised, and ideals are hard to live up to; hard to destroy. They never had enough time for things to pass from perfect into the mediocre that marks most relationships. All either of them have left is the passion and the tragedy. A sense of unfinished business. She ponders why this is; how it’s nearly impossible to lay the whole thing to rest. Maybe even how it might be best the way it is. Human frailty at its best. She sips and sighs. She knows that reality has moved them too far apart for anything to happen between them; they have both moved on. But there is a part - and she closes her eyes when she thinks this: there is a part of each of them that exists, perhaps in another reality, together. She cannot deny their affect on each other and she likes this thought, tucks it away to examine later. For now, she thinks it might be enough that they are a part of each others lives, whether they speak or not. They are part of each other because their time together helped forge who they are now. That kind of history makes thier current partners uncomfortable because they can’t live up to the tempestuous nature of what happened during said history. Not that either of them expect thier partners to even try. She respects the others enough to leave it alone, even though, like him, she feels a desire, now and then to reconnect. To re-examine, to maybe even make sense of all that happened… and so she writes. And writes….
Posted in Fiction, fiction maybe | 3 Comments » | Tags: an alternate reality, lyrics, obsessobsessobsess, the road less travelled, things that make you go hrm, what lovers do
posted on August 15, 2009 at 12:11 pm by Khali
Sometimes I wish I smoked. Then I would have an excuse to go out and just sit, staring into nothing. Thinking.
I feel sometimes like my entire universe is contracting inside my head, like a prelude to a massive explosion. I’m overcome with nostalgia, with anxiety, stress… things I used to think myself free of. Things I used to disregard as something for weaker people. Bit of a wake up call to realise that these things are breaking me down, piece by piece. I suppose this is the kind of thing people mean when they talk about existential crises. I mean what the hell am I doing here? Sometimes I feel like everything is so fucking pointless and that we’re all running around like chickens throwing out emotions and fucking up with no idea what the big idea is. Heh… ok, that’s exactly what’s happening, but it’s frightening to think that no one on this planet has any self-assurance, or any idea at all that there is actually a direction to go in. Maybe I just feel like that because I’ve lost what self-assurance, confidence or conviction that I once had. I know what I would like to believe. I would like to believe that every thing happens for a reason. Not in the sense that everything is predetermined, because that’s the opposite of chaos in that there is no room for chance, change, art or individuality in that vision of the universe… and that is almost as terrifying as there being too much of that. I suppose we all want to feel like there is order in the universe, and even more so when there feels like there is none in our lives. But it would be nice to feel that and not feel so fucking adrift.
I find myself holding on to the walls, walking slower, laying on the floor, anything, to make things less likely to slip away from me. It’s a little like vertigo in reverse: I’m not falling down, everything else is threatening to fly up and away out of my reach. WHOOSH.
I keep thinking to myself: if only I had some time to think about things, to sort them out in my head… and then I think, even if I make time I’m going to get distracted with all the pieces that fit in, or should fit in and don’t. There really is no way for me to lay everything out and take a good look at it. In other words, I do not have the luxury of falling apart. By that I mean that life makes its demands on me. Rather, I let life make demands. I don’t have control of it, in other words. What I’m not sure of is whether other people feel the other way, like they do have control or if they know it’s an illusion and that they are just holding on to the pretense that everything is just fine. Wearing the mask, doing the dance.
Well, it’s not fine. I’m not fine, I’m overwhelmed. I’m managing, but I’m overwhelmed. The world is not fine: people are rude, ignorant, self-centered, and obsessive to the point that the pretense of society, of communities are stretched into incoherence. Everyone is disconnected and don’t know how to communicate; giving too little or too much of themselves and struggling to find a balance. Playing mind games when there’s no reason to second-guess thier opponent, who is in fact not an opponent but a fellow in the insane rat-race in the first place, someone who should be counted on, not suspected or mistreated or held at arms length. Imagined enemies, tangled intrigues from one level of society to the next - is any of it even real in the face of the fact that people go home every night and have to look at themselves in the mirror? How many people can do that and be reasonably happy with what they see there, literally and metaphorically?
whoosh…. I close my eyes and wait for the spinning to stop just long enough so I can take a deep breath.
I’ve stopped reading the news or watching TV, again. I stopped for a while before and then felt I should be more informed for whatever reason, but I don’t want to know about the killing and dying and general douchebaggery that seems to make up “the news” these days. I want to find something in there that makes sense. I want to see people getting something good because they deserve it. I want to read about someone rescuing someone from some nasty fate, I want to know that people, somewhere, are not self-absorbed assholes. I want to know that my fight to remain sane in this insane world is not futile or even unique. I want a damn success story.
But I say nothing. I can’t tell that story. Not yet. I have a long way to go, on many levels. Right now I’m workin on this reverse vertigo. I just need to sort my personal pile of crap into more manageable pieces. So if I seem a little strange to you people in the next little while that’s what’s up. My head’s in pieces in a way it’s not been for nigh on ten years, though there is no single thing that has caused this particular mass of little black rainclouds. They just seemed to blow in on me all at once and in a great hurry. Now I’m just waiting for the storm to break so I can let the rain wash my brain clean.
listening to: Kosheen - Cover
reading: A complicated kindness - Miriam Toews
Posted in fiction maybe, journal | 1 Comment » | Tags: life, little black raincloud, my brain, nescience, thinky, woosh
