11 11 04 – Moleskine
I would fall 1000 times to test whether my heart cannot possibly break. But to what and will my silly gesture lead? I have received it. Yet again. And as I will. Soon. You for it. The jolt of my broken America or perpetual decay the white to my yoke. There is so little since to be made of this peace anymore. It topples upon itself always and forever an eternal yet stagnant puddle reversed for the light it reflects and loathed for the mosquitos it makes. If I could only get inside her like that girl the other day–but oh, she, this life, won’t be the sorry pussies I’ve fucked all these years. There really is no hope since JC left us like this. It’s not the church I’ve come to despise but more the idear of JC and how the church has manipulated me in his name. But I still want to believe. The bible school love preached to me, illustrated by RGB colored books for four year olds. Yes, that love I want but to hang the church teacher liars.
It is this place I love so much. If only I could code into its soul a message (blah blah blah blah blah). Of course it’s a long shot. The want of such a thing. Yet it is a spec of something worth living for. This place, I love so much. Like a runaway father it eludes me. Sitting atop a Great Wall only seen from space twiddling its thumbs. Oh, I am my own stiff-arm. Out of control. Impenetrable. So there is a spec. Of something worth living for. Something so many stride for everyday as they live, drawn in mendacity. I have heard them yearn and live for so much but when in a brief second, during a quick discussion about life and mendacity, they indicate a hidden desire. An agenda. Is it the great and meaningful love-fuck produced between Disney and Porn-wood? No. I given in and hopefully admit to it being something else. A spec of something. Spec. Of want and desire. For meaning and knowledge. The moment comes and goes too fast. (S)wishing by in a hurricane with roof shingles.
Gripes. So many of them. The place I live, the place I’m from. The anger and frustration leaving my real home some 15 years ago is now the same for the place I live. Both have annihilated the other. Yet there is still meaning. Where will I find refuge? In the silly place where ironically Marx and the automobile were founded? No place to go between those things. And what things they are. In this night I will pass more than a Meridian.