My pretend house will be so large, you won’t be able to find me when I cry

In some ways I’m a bit like Belle from in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. On the outside I’m brunette, a bit peculiar, judgmental, and headstrong. In other ways I feel like crazy old Maurice: insane, creative, obsessive, frail. I’m also not an old French dude; I also like steam punk.

951882d2472a8e70ad73cc6035960c2a

Crazy like a fox!

I feel like a total fraud. Being here on the internet. Being here on the blogosphere, touting that I’m some WHATEVER start up who seems to have it all! And at the same time, I don’t think I’ve written that at all. I’m a fucking mess and even called this whole thing my word vomit bucket.

I’m incredibly comfortable with putting myself down: well, that’s my comfort zone. People talk about “the light” and “finding their bliss” and “being happy”. They even say they get their strength from god and jesus and the holy fucking angels or whoever whatever. Well fuck god, he’s dead. He doesn’t exist and never did. It’s pure evolution of the ignorant mind.

If something cannot be explained then it’s so easy to say “it’s god’s will,” or “who are we to question god?” Well I’ll tell you who we are, we are god! What was god so fucking scared of that he had to keep us fucking idiots? Scared we’d usurp his fucking power. Because if he was infallible, he would not have given a shit. If I have an ant crawl across my foot, I flick it off because its annoying. I don’t go and stomp on all of the little ant hills in my yard. A-ha! That will teach you pesky fuckers. Learn some respect! Stay on your flat dirty ground, my house has a foundation and a roof.

Fuck your god. People attribute deific qualities to things they don’t understand. At least I know my god is all in my head. It’s all made up stories I’ve told myself to help me deal with the bullshit of the real world.

EXCUSE ME WHILE I THROW ALL THIS MARKETING AND BRANDING GARBAGE TO THE WIND. I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if I should care. But it sure was nice to pretend I had something worth giving, worth doing. That MAYBE, JUST MAYBE it was a possibility to “just be me”.

ponty

A bloody, drooling mess. That’s more like it.

I’m a voice for the fucking underdog, I’m a voice for the misunderstood, I’m a voice for all your doubters who never thought you could. I know what it’s like to be lonely, and feel pressed down under some invisible foot.

When growing up, I never really grew up. I felt I grew out instead because I couldn’t very well grow down. I am a master of my mind because I’ve traveled across all the pathways before. It was the only place I could go to escape my heart. My mother-fucking-heart. I fucking hate it. It’s like a weed that just never dies, the roots of the demon are the veins of my body.

I’ve attempted astral projection as a means of escape. But I’ve never left my body. I used to sleep all the time because that way I didn’t have to be awake unless I absolutely had to. Consciousness the annoying thing between naps. It’s death but without the commitment.

stone-sour-through-glass_cd_coverw320px

Even Corey is struggling to follow where I’m going with this post.

I don’t have body dysmorphia or any or any problems about “being in the wrong body”. But I wholly believe that My outsides do not match my insides. My outsides are a lie. A mistruth. I look exactly the way that I should look. But I lament that I don’t know how to “look” a different way. I’m always the same.

That’s why I look to the art of the times, because of the anguish that artists go through, to put force into form so that they may look upon it and no longer be its slave. I look at pictures and try to find myself, where I could be. It’s pretty awesome the internet is around, it’s wasn’t quite this way when I was in high school. I used to only listen to songs and feel it in my heart, a vibrational lullaby to soothe that grumpy beast.

I remember making my own html websites and shit, emailing people who might host my on their server. I was so arrogant and narcissistic. I put all these photos of myself online and shared my poetry, music I really liked, and my inner demons. I guess I just put all that shit out there because I thought that maybe someone out there would see that I was someone worth noticing, that there was something special and notable about me. That was between 2000-2002. In 2003 I just mostly focused on the webcam and made a yahoo group for all my shitty photos. I just liked taking pictures of myself with my friends. I thought we were hilarious and awesome. Then social media came along and took the fun out of everything. I learned that people aren’t actually interested in other people, they’re only interested in what their own lives look like, and making sure to construct their image in a certain way.

e32b448c62f82c40a50e07c1351911fd.jpg
Sharing fractals of fragments, their profiles paint a pretty mosaic.

Vainglorious narcissism. Which wasn’t anything extraordinarily different to what I was doing.. But I at least felt like I was contributing somehow… here is my heart, it’s been wounded and it’s open house today. I know stuff and am willing to do stuff. I just want to be something, even to someone. Even for the briefest moment maybe I could make someone happy.

Posted by

Muse of epic poetry. Mother Metatron. Contemporary teacher of humanity and art.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.