v: Counting to Zero

An anecdote.

I worry about what is going to happen with me. Never to me. Just of me. Everything within the framework of my life, is open to full control - if only denial, a gasp or a grasp.

Even if one is to right every wrong he has done, systematically dwelling subterranean while still living among those the sun hasn't burnt yet, he risks never fully atoning, and being left with a confession. And the corresponding scorn which comes into existence from reliving so cleanly, newly exposed to those too afraid or ashamed to delve, on their own, into the fragility and harshness of their own existences respective. That one will find fresh judgment in recognizing the suffering which all existence sails upon.

Not done, not at all, ergo I have to serve eternally as my harshest critic, beat to the gates and torchbearers all news and word of my sordid transgressions, wake all dreamers lest it come to allowing blind trances to remain looping on forever.

Sweet surrender be true.

There comes only so much of this that can be done. Only so much that can be attoned for, if someone didn't act in outright malice, the posture it demands of a person doesn't work except in lucid, grating imagination - there are real places for real crimes and the people that don't get away with them. There are real places for true hurt to be expressed, and the empty talk of trauma by just existing doesn't carry a point well.

There have been people that I have pulled myself out of. And by that I mean, taken my interest, fleeting as it were to be seen later, and the rest of my life, out of that web of entanglements. Out of being mistaken, mistaken for a much more patient, needing person that I was, or out of just by grace of having been there. If I stop to take account of all of the schools I've been inserted into and expelled from or moved on from - all times, for all reasons, ultimately down to being bored, unmotionable - social circles meant nothing to me, no desire to be included, knew who to talk to anyways. And went along with that, fine. I could probably be the vector for the most insidious change possible. But I've had better things to do than being accepted, taken in, finding my place.

I spoke with an old friend the other day. We knew each other long before I ascended into the hell I've put my faith into, and lost her name along the way. Some people I have to take awhile to remember the faces of, which person I was and where. It's natural though, that these things come back. Just as natural as gradually forgetting that I had a life before each previous chain of relations, over and over.

People who have gone on their own accord, off into the world, and came back listless trying to remember just what was missed in the first place, will understand. People who cry indignation for those in their life giving up on them before it even becomes apparent, simply, wouldn't.

product of/ in conjuct w/ pandrax.com

press . diss order . bio . the continuum . sprawl . predatory fiends
ec: stereotaxic@thepatient.org . copyright 1999-2003 pnd. x1230