The Memory Box

hello world. Hello Imaginary Friends.

tonight. thing’s are brighter.

I am reporting to you live from somewhere in my cerebellum, an ocean of data is crashing at my toes. Thing’s have gotten rather dark in this my special little corner of myself. My white hot room is in disrepair. This I know to be true, I know that there is something wrong. I can feel it; deep inside me burrowing and breathing. It hates me, it hates you, it hates all of us for no other reason than that is all it knows. Depression you see has no spite, nor vendetta. It does not care about anything other than itself. I understand this. Perry understands this. Cant understands this. Nivek understood this for a time until he didn’t.

Depression does not sit in a bar and wait till last call to follow you out. It doesn’t sit idly by while you stumble for your keys. It does not plot against you. It doesn’t upon seeing you in some prone position feverishly searching for that fucking Queen cd you just burned the other day and you know it is fucking in there. Somewhere. Depression does not wait till this moment to come and upon you make a victim. NO. It just sits in squalor. Festering. Like Buzzfeed columnist searching for something relevant and edgy to write about it sits in it’s squalor and makes note of every flaw and inconsideration you have ever done or might yet still do. What it makes notes of varies from person to person, situation to situation. As your local avatar for chaos I assure you this is in perfect unison with the system of the universe. My idol worship grants me no freedom, it makes me all the more culpable. Chaos grants me no bane for being it’s herald other than more of what is fair. To delude myself that it were any other way would be to fall headfirst into theism and that certainly will not happen.

You see there can be no difference. Two halves make the very same whole and so it is with our sanity. We all merely cope in different ways. Some better than others. Some tragically worse than others. This is not about that though. Not tonight. Tonight is about the times when even though every time you look in the mirror all you see is blood raining down your face, when you can only bring yourself to mutter words backwards perhaps. It perhaps keeps you from slipping and saying what is on your mind to the wrong person. Not the WRONG person but the ::shrugs:: wrong person. You might see a distant black horizon but than a shooting star or two or three or four comes raging across the sky. They light things up and you take notice of the squalor with which depression has so politely draped over you to make sure you are the prettiest girl in it’s parlor.

You catch sight of this fiery celestial thing, it allows you however briefly to see the muck of despair and distress you have found yourself so entangled within. For me at least, on such nights it purges the infection and, I stand up a bit; I sort of find a smile while my lips crack, dry and my eyes drained of all their tears fall out. I pick myself up and start over again. I never deny it will happen again, I am broken and I more likely than not did this to myself in some manner along the way; maybe not entirely but to some degree. Everything has a price. All the magik you synthesize in your brain over the years, it has to come and go from somewhere. I knew that going in and, I stand ready to pay my cost. As above so below and all that.

The times though that you are afforded to hit said reset button and start your funeral march anew should be valued and treated with care. Those involved are unaware and to make them aware would ruin it. So be yourself and embrace it all. Your strange loop comes again, this time remember that they will push as hard as you did when you were that age. They test you as far as you allow and their eyes look deep into your own. They see the void inside you. They cannot fathom how you burned so deep for so long and how you are not some empty shell. You dare not allow that. You simply use their eyes to bounce more celestial beacons across macabre skies like a game of pong with reapers and ravens.

It serves to help in minute amounts replenish the dead mines inside your head that have since betrayed you and killed not only the canaries but all the workers as well. I am in no way saying it fixes it all or that there is a way out of the special hell. Only way out is across the stars. Ask Nny. I for one have no interest in space travel. So I mine.

I keep cadence in my mine of la da la da la da  la dee  la dee doo. I watch clouds of indifference and memory recoil at old pictures and on lucky nights the cadence picks up and trap doors open dropping me into mine cars of manic rides to all to all night suites. It’s ok. The ride is generally not long no vagrants shall be harmed in the filming of the backs of my eyes. Everyone gather around, the meteor shower is on, the night is alive with smiles and rivals, and tales of survival. No nobody makes it out alive but if we keep this in mind and more than we might fool ourselves into thinking we are alive.

Hold your head up high on such nights and breathe deep.

Don’t be a fool.

Be sure to kiss your loved ones.

I am Kevin.

Kevin.

I breathe fire.

I dream demons.

I am unstable inside & I scare myself.

I am Kevin.

 

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