hope springs eternal

I feel lethal. On the verge of frenzy.

But at the same time, I am sad. To the core sad, like that dog in Japan waiting for his master, who had died weeks before at work. Still waiting. Ever faithful. Recently, I found myself at an internal crossroads of sorts. I was ready to abandon, actually I was deathly afraid I had already abandoned by goodness, my inner purity and selflessness. In a sense, this is true. I have had to abandon much of my innocence to make it this far, but last night I found myself able to abandon more. I hope I kept what was left. To lose that too, to become self-centered, selfish, oblivious to others’ feelings, to lack empathy, would leave me a shell.

I am sad for the girl I wish to make happy, but can’t, because I’m poor. It hurts when she won’t be close, when she keeps herself closed, guarded. I stand there, unsure what to do with my hands, wanting so badly to hold her, to stroke her hair, her face. But the vast majority of my tender advances of late have been met with indifference, a tense patience. So after a few tries I stop, cursing myself, whipping myself inside for pushing too much, for not being the cool motherfucker who doesn’t fucking care that she exists, that she is hurting too. Would I be that person? I could, but I chose not to. Oh, I hope I chose not to.

And I cannot change it. While her old friend is here, her time is taken, and I can only so many times tell her I love her without her saying it first for a change. So I stop. Stop saying it. Turn off the pipe again that makes me want to say it. And that makes me saddest of all, sometimes.

Sad at myself for feeling sad about this. Sad for not having the stuff to keep my job, for losing it, for having to find a new one. Had I only done so many things differently, had I not binged and blown thousands of dollars on drugs when I first got to this city of such vast potential. What would have happened? Would I be happier now? Will I know not to make the same poor decisions in the future? I hope so.

There it is. Hope. But hope dies in the face of humanity, in the harsh breath of selfishness. Hope should be altruistic, communal. Hope is the bread of those who cannot feed themselves off of the flesh of action, who cannot bring themselves to look beyond the moment, and see the forest through the trees. Hope is a crutch for those incapable of seeing action through to a desired end.

I hope. Still now. And hope springs eternal. Mahalo. Be safe. Love JP

TempusFugit

And so I find myself here, once again staring into the abyss of uncertainty and doubt. Doubt feeds depression. Lack of money feeds doubt. Lack of control and restraint drains money supplies. Depression, and the desire to free oneself of control and restraint brings momentary happiness, but only for a short while. Then, they lead back to doubt. Vicious fucking cycle. Circle de Diablo.

And all that.

It is up to ME to find the way out of this, to take responsibility for my actions, to strictly limit expenditures. To eat cheap. Not to go out. Save… save… save…

But how do you do that in the middle of a teeming metropolis? With friends who want to see you, whom you want to see? How does that work with a girlfriend? God. How does that work with a girlfriend? Which fucking chick is going to want to be with a guy who can’t even take her out to fucking dinner? Ah, there’s the depression…

It set in hard while running today, three miles up La Cienega to Sunset and back. I cried, had to stop running. Had to summon the fear, the disgust at myself, the Engine. The Engine, that fountain of anger, pity and spite that chimes in, sometimes loudly, sometimes not. It dulls the edges, hazes out right and wrong, diminishes pain. It keeps me in a constant state of despair, focused, driven anguish that somehow keeps me going.

Am I becoming too bitter?

Have I passed the point of no return, and am now incapable of really being happy? I hope not. I hope that all, no, I will work to make sure that my worst fears do not come to pass. That I retain a working position, or attain a new one, one that will allow me to ease the strain of massing debt, instead of steering me slowly toward it.

Not to point fingers, and not REALLY to misplace blame, but I never truly learned how to deal with money. Hell, I didn’t know what the fuck credit cards actually were, how credit card debt worked, until I was three grand in the hole. And then there’s the giving nature, the desire to see everyone having a good fucking time, fuck the expense. Wait, bro, until you can afford to do that. Don’t risk your whole future on this coast, don’t jeopardize everything you have, have worked for, for trifle friends.

For that is what many of those I met early on have turned out to be. Not worth the steam off my piss. But, eh, was fun while it lasted, right? It was, but not that fun. Maybe within the fog of drugs and delusion, inside the faux warm underbelly of communal society.

But it has given me the means to find myself out of this financial predicament. By writing about it, by putting it to word, making it fun, hard to read, I can claw myself out of this mess, and live the life I wish to live. Write, fain soul. Please. Eschew Them for a while. They can take it. Use this month without Her to write. Get it out. DO IT. Fucker. Just fucking do it. Time waits for no man, death rides your coattails, and love conquers all. Bouyah. Lv JP

The great treatise

The great treatise, the grand answer of life is nothing. Not in a negative way. Simply, it is that point between one moment and the next. It builds with the lover awaiting word of a war removed mate. It lies in the deep valleys of fear. Of pain. Vast fields of pain.

From keeping yourself at the point where you don’t truly love her. Something is kept back. And maybe down the years she’ll cry, and, knowing, will ask you why you never fully loved her. And you tell her, that if you hadn’t kept some back, there’d a been no spark. No mystery. No reason for fights.

Because unconditional love is precious. It is not to be given to one and all. It is to be shared with all who fit into its vast embrace. But, at the core of things, at the very base, perches the everlasting fact that you die alone. There is no such thing as redemption. Perhaps things go on, or perhaps the grooves of existence will simply go on without you.

And so the uncertainties of the word, the painful unfulfilled desire to write, interrupted by this so wonderful of a quagmire. But perhaps soon the tap will be turned off, the pleasures of companionship and life coaching (hehe) with it. And love. Love would leave. Goodbye love. For king, for country. Fuck the king.

What kind of god would be so cruel as to make her. To show me all the qualities that make a woman great, then wave her in front my face, before taking her again from me. Into the hands of one equally, if not more, worthy. But I remain by far the most worthy. I have put myself in the face of destiny, and let my instincts flow.

I was myself. I am someone I’ve never met before. Someone bad. Someone who is really not a nice person, buried in grief and anxiety, grinning wildly as she broke my heart, again. This time, it was in the living room. Perched atop a tan couch I watched her turn, hearing her confirm her open options policy. And me riding the fine line of a long term options policy.

Because you really have got to think about that, these days. Fuck. 29. it’s just a slump. Keep you head up legs closed eyes open. What pressures stress induces on the soul of the pessimistic.