Charade

Something happened here in my journal, something I've struggled and struggled with lately. A change of mission, a division of purpose, what once was an unscripted stream of conscious exhibiting erratic behavioral writing for me, has turn into something I liken to my 'real 3-D' world.

Meaning, in my 3-D world I am a mute. And for whatever unexplainable reason, this journal has warped into something that scares me into mute, and thats a line I never wanted drawn.

It really pisses me off about myself.

I can't be a mute in every aspect of my life, it's enough to drive me terminally crazy. Therefore, fuck it, I'm taking this journal back from myself, from the oblivion I personally boxed it into. Blame is a beautiful thing and one aspect in life I have no issues wrapping the beauty of its principle around myself. I blame myself, my mind, my perceived expectations and hence will partake on the mission of reclaiming. I doubt it will be beautiful or inspiring. It will be, what it is.........I'm tired of hiding in every aspect of my world and this journal feels like a good place to practice.

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Issue of mute. Yesterday I answered my phone to a friendly voice. A new moment for me. What I should have told this person was that I have born the full on persona of a mute lately. I have crawled into a cave and refused to speak to anyone if humanly possible. I screen calls from all friends and family, I push as much work as possible off to the minions who devour my scraps like cotton candy. One step from a certifiable depression, or self imposed destruction. During the safe talk and simple topics I should have removed the tourniquet that felt like it was choking me to death and let flow all thats been bottling up in me for so long. I did not. I hate that. I wanted to. I didn't. I am the puppet on a string who is dictated by some unexplainable force that casts a spell of silence. I blame myself of course.

There are all these moments of chance in life. People ask me questions and I have this split second of choice, talk or not. The not, always wins. I have stood in front of some beautiful people in life, and they have asked me point blank, what are you thinking, what are you doing, what are we doing, and the answer is always the same. Silence. I disappoint so often it's become habit. Those who know me, expect this, it's a trained conclusion that I give no choice about.

I shouldn't have told this person life is fine. I should not have put on the happy voice. I should have exposed myself and said, I'm so bone tired today, I'm saddened beyond measure, I miss more then I can bear, I regret larger then life and I am so lonely I can't hear my heart anymore. I should have told them I want to weep for my wasted time and I want to crawl into safe arms and sleep. I should have said I'm not well and that worry keeps me up late at night and that difficult choices are stealing away my dreams. Should have, could have, didn't, the precipice of my cliffs. I had the opportunity, and let it pass once again.

I am afraid, someday they will no longer ask and I will deserve exactly that.

When I wrap myself around the truths of my silence, I must start admitting it's my failure to take responsibility, chance, choice, truth and my fraudulent voice that makes life so dark. There is no natural light in dark, only self made shadows from a tiny little candle. There is no comfort in black walls and red roofs. Where I once found sanctuary, is warping into a self destructive place of loneliness. I'm letting all this life pass me by just outside my cave of despair and cowardliness. I am not a strong person. I think strong people are they ones who shout to the world, hey I'm fucked up today and I'm letting you know it. It's the sniveling cowards that wrap themselves within their own little world to afraid too expose themselves for all they are worth. No inspiration to be found in those words, just my truths.

I'm angry today, angry at myself and only myself. If silence has a sound, it's become deafening in my world. I can barely stand it's tone, it's pressure of time, it's weight of choice. Everyday I get up and stand before obligation and my tourniquet tightens, my cowardliness shows it true colors and I allow another day to pass without battle. I've become the wounded soldier laying in the field playing dead. A dead person is passed on by for the people who can be helped. Playing dead is an idiotic strategy.

Precious moments gone into the illusion of time. If I've concluded one thing, it's that I certainly don't have the passion and fortitude to continue my charade for much longer.