Sits in my bones and grows like cancer. There's a rattle in my serenity, boredom induced psychosis. The walls are bleeding and I pick up a sledgehammer and put a hole through one. Through that hole my girlfriend awakes, the dog barks and they look through and see me, but different.
I wake up at 5 every morning, I sit and meditate and write. Then I go to work for eight hours. Get home, I exercise, cook a healthy dinner, watch a bit of TV then go to bed, and every day I do this I move towards a life closer to mine, closer than one where I sponge off others with the ability to accumulate belongings and beds under a ceiling, with those who don’t feel a ticking time bomb of dread when they have a mortgage, with commitments longer than a day.
I am a little flawed you see, I get scared of commitments, because I can see the future, the rhythm, a little too clearly, and at the end of it, if it ends, is death, and I am scared to die, because the one who feels emotions like fear does die, so forgive him wisdom, I am not you yet. Maybe it is not so much death that I am worried about, but dying whilst still alive, living a life because I cant handle freedom, living a lie because I'm too afraid to be alone, because the comfort is warm even if its fabricated.
I move towards a life with the freedom of my discipline that has taken six years to muster and I write a book that doesn’t promise even my illusions grandeur.
Fear mixed with anxiety brewed with a knowing and truth that there is a gremlin within me that wants to rip it all to shreds. There is a slight build of pressure like a high pitched tone of white noise, building each day, and something is going to POP.
All the things I found to relieve that pressure that took a suicidal boy to smiles and gratitude. Slowly dissolve through little lies best kept to yourself. This brave boy stupid enough to share everything, letting the little gremlin out to shine to only see itself in the mirror and realise it’s a scared little boy who just wants a cuddle, or just wants to be heard, or just wants to step out of the shadows and get some sun, as the sun turns his image into something pretty, something real, something we can all see, not only I feel.
How my gremlin expresses itself from the shadows in ways so boring. The slight release of pressure, like trying to pop a boil that only grows back three times bigger after your fat dumb fingers couldn’t help itself but touch it.
Well it is 6:43am now. I have been at it for a little while. Legs still crossed. A full day of work ahead of me. It is never that bad, it really isn’t, and the universe would have given me a lifetime of time to write each day if I could have handled it, if I didn’t just smoke and sit beneath a tree before I ate and masturbated whilst telling myself that there is gems in this state of consciousness that will sell books I was never going to write.
Now I am the man who wakes up to write, who does do, who I craved to be for years, now I am him my silly little gremlin riddled psyche begins to envy and idolise the one who died for me to be me.
This is how I release the pressure, this is my best friend, one who cares, and I do not want to silence my honest words out of the fear of the wrong eyes seeing them, and the website has dust on it as my life gets real and the circle of those I can effect emotionally through my actions and thoughts grows wider.
The cost of my freedom is I am now worth something.
Freedom is a word so illusive I couldn’t define a meaning with eleven coffees.
I guess I am scared, because I feel the patterns of self sabotage, and I feel the restriction of judgement without logic, the filthy fingerprints of brainwashed thoughts, programs overflowing into my short time on earth, and the little lies create a place in the shadows, where suppressed angels become wingless demons with the blade of duality.
I want to accept all, I want to make mistakes, I want to choose my shortcomings.
Well, I best get up and go to work, and keep putting numbers into the account, so one day I can do what I do before work as work, and I do love it, this life I live, this being I am, this world where kookaburras laugh and seals swim. I just need to spew letters into words to let my gremlin sing. I just need to be honest, and me, because my bad self is better than the shit that comes out of the shadows when I only show my good self. My good self is prisoner to the minds idea of what good is.
If I smash it all down through stupidity and boredom, well, I was conscious every step of the way and my God is cruel.
If my awareness gobbles up my psychosis and this garden of Eden lets the snakes speak without the fear of getting their heads cut off, then we might just make it out alive Riley.
But Riley is the name of an idea that will die.
and ill be back,
with this ball of Karma,
this ball of geometry.
