With a pocket full of shells

Would there have been any easier way to say it, I would, but there really is not. I swam all the way back to square one. An inch farther from where I was when I had lost everything in a fell swoop. My only hope is to do this one better than the last time around. The whole process of spiritual recuperation really is as exhausting as I had imagined it to be. On top of that there is an uneasy feeling in the background that nothing is still tagged to end, meaning all that came before now has the potential to smack me right back in. Where I was, at my most miserable, but only this time this loss completely destroys me permanently. Wherever I go I fear the smell of rabbits, of bulls, and of stars, and anything resembling niceties. Nothing nice is ever really nice. Everything nice comes at a cost.

I still stand tall, eager for the new, but scarred so very internally that the mere feeling of microrejection bites me hard, and it coils me into foetal, and wallowing into self-despair becomes my only reprieve. Nothing of value was ever lost. I look to the grand scheme of things, and place myself further down in rank. My conversation with Ainhoa a few days ago about self-fulfilling nightmares echoes inside my head. They are coming back. Whereas I feared of snakes living inside my shoe during my childhood, now I fear of rabbits superfecundating somewhere and littering the streets of London with mockery of what I could have had. I really should not dwell on such thoughts. Snakes are less predatory now than rabbits. Let her rest. Let me rest. All the days ahead shrink in number wasted by the accumulation of frustrated emotions, pain, longing, regret. We all need our breaks. 

And I do find breaks in between, when the bull comes over and spends time with me, smashing through the congested space of my mind with too much aggression, and I love it. But ever since I opened my darned mouth about my feelings it just kind of mellowed down, dying a slow death. The bull will never find happiness with me.

The bull deserves better, so much better, and the bull was right not to fall for my transgressions. I am foolish and impulsive, quick to fall to pettiness. Outside of the smartness of our mobile interactions is a frail and broken man, with no end to folly, and life failing in so many different ways that I can almost congratulate the rabbit for doing him no favours. I deserve all of this, because all of these should have woke me up, told me more about myself, but it has not. I will not inflict a new one upon another. This selfishness has got to end somehow.

My mother, my sister will agree, and to my father... fuck him.

I have no concept of what it is to love, but I continue to do so, as instinctive and primal as it may be, which needs to evolve. It needs to stir with wisdom and responsibility and self-image, which I clearly have none of the above. One of these days the prophetic phobia of me finding rabbits in the street will bear fruition, and I know it will, and I must needs prepare for that eventuality. I need to channel Lot and his wife when God had commanded both not to look back on the extirpation of Sodom and Gomorrah and its inhabitants. I must avoid Lot's wife's fate and never look back. When chance does come I must ignore it, by hook or by crook. At this point in my life all I need is to survive, alone or otherwise. This job I am slowly dreading needs to be persistently available so I may look to find a better opportunity in the next few weeks or months ahead. My sojourn trip for a spiritual awakening will hopefully soldier on by spring of next year. That is basically the only reason now for me living, for being, which I will sacrifice everything else to just accomplish. It hurts to think about the solitude that awaits me, but even now I am alone, and by then nothing will change. Everything stays the same. My life as a cautionary tale. The tale of the struggler.

There was a man at work, silent and punk in appearance and demeanour, with tattoos and a pink hair. I had just been pushing on with work when I noticed one of his tattoos on his arm. A pale and naked woman, ethereal, fantastical. It somehow seemed so familiar. Upon closer inspection, it turns out the tattoo was in fact Slan. And upon realisation I looked up his sleeves and saw it. The one mark I have been meaning to find. The brand of sacrifice. The same design I asked numerous tattoo artists to imprint at the back of my neck, to which I have been repeatedly declined. One of them said that it [the tattoo], and I paraphrase, will "ruin my life overnight." The next person I asked and the reaction was the same? I did not understand the rejection, but perhaps my face exhibited some form of appearance that denoted that I am not cut out for that burden, that perhaps the mark was never meant to be mine. I wanted it, but not so badly that I should ruin any and everything else to pursue it, and also to worry about the cost of the whole experience. Perhaps costs should be the least of my worries right now. When chance comes by to collect, there is a debt that needs to be paid. Another legacy of the rabbit and its mischief. Should I drain all my finances so as to avoid it from being taken away from me purposefully by someone else? This colleague I had has the same mark as I wanted. I envied his mark; it, too, was mine and will still be, if chance permits me to. Being alone has its perks, but being alone meant being constantly ravaged by untidy thoughts that needs addressing, for myself and for others. This is not the end for me. I ask myself: how did I survive being ravaged by the sun before? It has been a very long time since then. The sun has moved on, but I clearly have not. Over and over I cling to both elements to shield me for what is to come, and I start thinking, perhaps this is the best that I can do. All roads lead to nowhere, in the grand scheme of things. It is always about the grand scheme of things. The grand scheme brings us all a reason for being, or none at all, and I have to accept being none at all.