All the traffic lights were red, but my brakes were broken

Had a dream last night that I was locked in a giant parking garage. My car wasn’t where I parked it but this girl walks up to me looking scared and worried.

Then she says something like, “You look hopeless, lets get out of here”, and proceeds, to my horror, to jump over a railing and into this massive industrial fan that was whirring floors below. There was nothing original, perplexing, or surreal in any of this.
Pre verbalization. Post sublimation.

I had another dream that my ex from my late teens looked like a young Katy perry with shoulder-length hair and I didn’t try to tap that or whatever. I spent the duration of the dream with a half-assed intent of getting to know who she is “now” and cleaning dirty caked cat litter off of her linoleum kitchen floor because it was bothering the piss out of me. Obviously, there was no point in figuring her out again, because she was still a slob. Just a Katy perry looking slob now.
Wtf is wrong with me?
When I woke up there was a dead cricket about an inch from my eyeball.
Thought it was a fuzz at first.
I lay there, and the light is shoving its way in through the blinds.
The final impulses for my awakening is seeing I’ve slept in. Its 11:27 now. I stare at that same old crack in the wall trying to over-analyze its symbolism in my life. Constructing a myriad of metaphors for its politics, its branching omens.

Had a much needed and delayed discussion with my mother this afternoon. I cried, but it felt good. Things will have to change somehow. A landmark on the journey.
Sometimes I think everything is going to be alright, and I start to feel good and capable and all those nice things but then I remember I live in a state adjacent to Yellowstone and then everything feels doomed again.

I go to the kitchen and get out four slices of bread and I spread peanut butter and strawberry preserves on them, and I pour a glass of milk and eat two entire oranges without sitting down.
Did you know that in WWII in Britain, an orange was considered a great luxury?
I sat out on the balcony for a while, looking out. The sun was the face of God though I was looking nowhere near the sun. He was ready to kill us, and Lucifer worshiped us.
The ravens notice me there though I have nothing for them; I feel almost an empathy that they will grow hungry.

Couldn’t sleep so I decided to go for a drive but Denver is dead this time of the year and nothing else is important even though everything was still as ordinary as it could be.
I was driving along a parkway watching the streetlights move by smoothly and quietly, one every few seconds, in an endless procession. I stop at a 7/11. Someone is moving around inside, but I pay by credit card at the pump. There are no other cars. The air smells grey and sleepy.

I pass by strangers on the street. I am not afraid of strangers; of the faces they make. Or the guns they could pull on me at any given time. I am not afraid of their motives, in the dumb show of their lives. I’ve seen eyes speak stories in a second of passing then close the lids of their humanity, and Lord knows why, but I immediately want to know why that boy needs to prove his worth with his fists, or how much he loves his mother, or why his shirt is missing a button.

I keep moving with whatever conviction I’ve prayed or painted or politicized into philosophy. I am restless and never sure of the turns; only that the road stretches on and I’m blown somewhere like pollen, thoughtfully aimless because it’s easier to drift than to know a direction. This is a sure thing after all my years; unlearning turns destined to end up another dusty mythology. Another lost city. Atlantis of tomorrow. I’m just somewhere bound. It’s not a yellow brick road by any means but it’s somewhere hopefully forward.

I see the hungry and the homeless are moving about in the glass covered streets of a dying downtown, plucking used cigarettes from damp ashtrays outside the government office buildings where they will eventually pick up their social security checks.
I am hungry too but the only thing open is McDonalds.
I don’t want McDonalds unless they have the McRib which they probably won’t.
Every year McDonalds announces the return of the McRib.
I dream this should be a religious holiday that I ask my boss to have off. The look on his face would be priceless right before he tells me to
g e t a f u c k i n g l i f e.
Dreams are good but dreams don’t pay the bills.
And all I know for sure in this world is that my spirit is finally slowly coming back.
I honestly didn’t know if it ever would?
Don’t even know how that makes me feel.
Brain dead-albeit born of necessity. Angry. A shitty culmination of things.
I’m so intensely curious. Both enthralled and terrified by possibilities and variables of life.
N E R V O U S.
I am so nervous and I hide it all too well.
I have to continue to live this way and sometimes it’s overwhelming.

There are days when I am convinced that I am garbage. There are days when writing hurts me more than not, when it feels like I am dragging my organs out of my body through my mouth and when I get them out into the light, it’s not even worth it.
I write that I feel terrible about writing. That I hate writing.
That I am sad and alone in the world when I am probably neither.
Sometimes the thing that keeps you alive, the only thing that makes you happy, doesn’t really make you all that happy at all. Sometimes it doesn’t make you want to live.
But it is the only thing you have, so what do you do? You make it self-referential, you keep digging it out of yourself.
So Fuck it.
I’m going to write this morning.
The kinda shit that inspires a fool’s sketchbook yet impresses no real artist.

+

Ahhh,
People say I need to laugh a little more.
I eventually have to swallow my pride and give them what they want, right?
I keep eye contact, smile, nod and hope no one asks me any questions.
I see myself upside down in their gaze.
Here I am extending each period of rejoicing, every time a little longer.
These days ask different measures of me, they hold new disorders; freshly pressed, newly minted, newly tested. They control me and the control is evident everywhere –
I’m in a cage – cast-iron birdcage round a roaring raptor;

there’s a riot between me and everything I love.

It haunts me, It dogs my every step.

When I get my hands on the news, it is always yesterday’s. When I feel excitement, its always next year’s. And if living like this is not enough, I may have nothing left.
I’m trying to think what I’ll do when it’s over –
But I know life isn’t all that easy. It’s not meant to feel like Christmas every morning.
And though it looks like sadness, love is an awful lot of why I do what I do.
Living without a passionate heart is bloody difficult- damn near impossible.

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9 thoughts on “All the traffic lights were red, but my brakes were broken

  1. I almost followed your blog because of your tagline. After I read this post, I realised you sound like the inside of my head.
    “There are days when writing hurts me more than not, when it feels like I am dragging my organs out of my body through my mouth and when I get them out into the light, it’s not even worth it.” This line is eerily relatable.
    I want to quote every word of this piece.

    Liked by 1 person

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