Midnight Jolt Run

Caffeine tastes better when the city's asleep

Piss-Warm 2012

Posted by Fiss on January 4, 2012

I have felt sadness before.  Loathing and anger are no strangers to my emotional pallet, and I can tell you of bitter swallows of both heartbreak and unrequited desire.  Ahh yes, yet they were always the kind of drink that scalded the throat, lightened the wallet and will…and ultimately taught me a lesson, desired or not.  But this…this is a watered down pint of spirits.  This strange, weak emotive mead is brewed not of the deepest sorrow, nor the sharp tang of regret.  It is stale, and it is hateful and I know it will not allow me to drink deeply of it so I may lose it in a hangover the next day.  I drink of piss-warm egotism, and yet I can’t bring myself to walk over to the toilet and deposit the liquid where it rightfully belongs.

Maybe it is the occupying of my thoughts that makes this so unique.  I feel sad, but not so sad as to rise up and resolve against all those sad things in the world.  I feel angry, but only as much as a frustrated houseplant must feel when someone nudges its vase.  I wallow and groan, but if I were to try to share my defeat with the many caring and lovely people in my vicinity, I am instantly rendered ashamed and would dare not continue past a noncommittal huff.  I almost believe it conquerable by a little will, a little smile and a pinch of the better sugars of our nature.  Yet the tears come, they sting, and they tell me I must continue feeling like this a little while longer, though they barely threaten to escape the lacrimal gland.

Of all the rampaging thoughts fighting to make sense of it all, it was the idea that I have become irrelevant that seemed to resonate correctly and echo the correct pitch of this feeling.  It is the feeling of not being listened to, and to the extreme point of a blade held in the air between you and the possibility of meaning something.  It is the feeling of being interrupted half way through every vocal ejaculation like some kind of strange kink paid for at a mistress’ whim.  This blue-balled chastity of meaningful discourse could be easily unlocked and remedied with the slick-handed attentions of almost any willing partner, but deep down, the guilt of an unfaithful moment seems to overpower the ability to stand at attention.  The chaste irrelevance of the moment continues pending the mercy of the one holding the key to the lock…of the one holding the attention you need to the tune of a need.

I have felt the sting of endless interruptions, misplaced attention and absentee audiences for compounding years.  Is it possible that the interest stemming from all this credit abuse is finally gaining on me?  Is finally eating away at my emotional reserves?  It certainly feels similar; like realizing a bill hasn’t been paid on time, or a paycheque has finally gone missing.  And yet, unlike the almighty dollar, I have no way to combat this.  I cannot simply work overtime, eat ramen, and forego new sneakers for a summer until books balance and ends meet ends.  One cannot walk to the pawn shop of emotion and trade a day’s worth of bliss for enough satisfaction to repair this incredibly shit start of the year.

But I do have one weapon.  One tool of the trade.  And maybe it will be enough to flush this foul smelling funk of self-pity down the drain.  Reluctantly but relentlessly, I must employ it.  There are far more pleasant ways to pollute oneself.

And so,

I write.

No better poison exists.

Posted under Colapost, Manifestoes
  1. John B. Said,

    Dude. I don’t know anything about your circumstances. Nothing at all about the things that are in your life, like thieves, taking freely of your joy and happiness. In fact, in spite of many years spent reading your words, and perhaps glimpsing a pale shadow of who you are, or who you see yourself to be through them, I don’t know you at all. It’s an interesting thing then to attempt to truly speak to you. How do you communicate to someone who is on the other side of the barrier of nonexistence? That gulf of virtuality? Neither of us are real, and yet we both are. Strange concepts, both lies and truths. Perspectives. But I digress.

    I have held an awe, or admiration for you for some while. But as they say- that puts no food on the table. You likely have more than a measure of people’s admiration. It’s a cold comfort. I know. You have a amazing talent with words. A skill, a tool for release, or freedom- they are both different and not. It’s not for others that you write, yet it is- another paradox. All of this is my perspective, all of it meaningless to you- so why say it?

    I guess because your words have helped me through a lot, I feel the need to, in spite of all of the barriers, and logic that dictates that my words shouldn’t mean anything to you- try to return some of that grace that you’ve unknowingly bestowed on me. I’ve put myself in Chris’s shoes. I fought Tumbler, and loved and lost Rei. I have heard the noise, and faced my own fall, the loss of my wings. All borrowed from you. All lies- all truth. you gave that to me, and in some ways- the less virtual me- who goes to work, and reads stories, and dreams and sleeps- was shaped- in part by you. Not to say that I designed myself after your characters, but when I had no ideals, I drew from them, as you must have from Lupin and samurai of old. They were my springboard to leap off into the wilderness of who I have grown to be.

    I didn’t ask your permission to tag along on your adventures- and like a tick, I’ve taken much from it, but given nothing back. But I would like to try to make it symbiotic.

    In the terms of your post- I guess I am a voyeur, who never tried to do anything, only took for myself. Now, I offer what I can- what you gave to me, words. Whether they are worthless or priceless are for you to judge.

    If you gauge your relevance based on the ripples from your actions or presence… Well- I’ve never met you, and you’re relevant to me. From a story that you started more than 16 years ago- and haven’t added to in 6 years. How much more influence, and import must you have with people who see you everyday?

    Ha- I’m sure that helped you a ton. Right. Yeah- probably not. All that I have left that I can say is that bankruptcy of hope, or love, or even joy is devastating, but not so much so that one can’t come back. One may go from bereft, and near destroyed to flourishing in surprisingly short time. But it does take something from them to make it. Not the same kind of sacrifice as going hungry to pay bills, like you said. Bu more like- and I know that this is going to sound stupid, but this is what I’ve learned coming through my own depression- acknowledging that you want to be happy, and deciding that you can.

    It’s not a solution, but it’s a impetus- a goad to make that crucial first step. After one, you not only have drive- your dissatisfaction- you also have momentum. Oh well. That’s it. All I have. Worthless words. Empty syllables, from the heart though. A virtual heart, reaching out to a imaginary person. We live in an age that the ancient philosophers would have both loved and hated, don’t you think? So many concepts and theories to have, horizons to view, and heresies to commit. Having stolen fire from the gods, and mastered it beyond our wildest dreams, where to now? I digress. There’s my offering to you. Scattered, unskilled, and unadorned, but it’s what I had to give.

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