Sometimes it doesn’t happen.

Damned if you do —

I would say more but then again I wouldn’t have to speak if I could just rip open my head and let it all spill out in colorful pictures. It wouldn’t be just red paint; it wouldn’t be just gray gel. ┬áIt wouldn’t be just white chips and the trailing ends of eyeballs.

There has to be something more in there, something more inside. Bigger. Better. Darker. Stranger.

When I was a little boy, my father told me I would grow up to change the world as he knew it. He died believing that.

I am dying, now, never having believed it, and I wonder which of us has been the liar for these past forty-six years. I’m tripping on all the broken teeth of discarded dreams and simultaneously wishing I could be thinking that I mean something. That I have ever meant something.

I am little more than the wet and dry ingredients that make my brittle bones and cancerous heart.

When I am broken down again and reclaimed, I will return with a ferocity I should have always had. You will hear it in my first breath, and know it in my last.

For now, I will smolder down and extinguish myself in all of the ways and things I could have, but didn’t.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Didn't

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    I don’t even know how to respond to that, so visceral. I don’t know how personal this is, but from my standpoint, it fairly grabbed me by the hair and smashed me into a wall. I hope you’re okay and that this is your imagining (because, you know, I don’t think you are a boy…), but either way, dreadfully powerful and a bit unnerving. As writing should be.

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