Atlas Scaffold

Be careful not to fall.

My name is a long list of lies and energy stored in the anxiety-born wounds on the body of the poor souls who got left out or who could never love or be loved or find love. I am not as deadly as a venomous bite, but believe me when I say I’ve caused as much damage to the human population, on average, over the last several hundred years, because there have been medical advances and people live in safer conditions now, conditions that keep them away from deadly snakes, on average. As medicine advances, I fly under the radar. People don’t understand me. But that’s good. More fuel for my ugliness. Ugliness that I am proud of. I leech life slowly out of the faces of my favorite people who I sit with for years berating and tearing down into piles of mental flesh. I am depression, and fuck you if you think you’re getting rid of me without a fight.

I wrote this because my friends are lying to me.

Take the trail at the bottom of the mountain. The one obscured by overgrowth and overwhelming fear. After the third pine tree out of place turn left onto the forest bed. Walk towards the smell of hate and let the adrenaline be your guide. Travel across the hidden stream in the small boat docked in the muck. Paddle only twice else they may hear you. On the opposite side you’ll see a woman putting a tattooed leg out from the brush. You must ignore her, she’s 112 and eats the youth from those who she coerces. By now you can see the shattered remains of an old settlement. Eerily it’s still being used. A man in a mask approaches in silence. Remember the words? Say them! “Beck insow dem hea fo spice.” He guides you to safety past groups of strange raving people. Some wearing masks and others seem dead but they’re not. Like feral and terrible beasts of human likeness who are no longer sane or were never sane who know nothing but a twisted language and eating and sex devoid of all culture. At the end of the road there is a large courthouse still in perfect form. You must enter alone. Inside the house you smell the feast and it makes you nauseous. The torches and candles all around light the place up. In some rooms you see short grey people. In others masks, beautiful and delicate masks on clearly pampered people. It is silent. Then through the silent hall, a voice pierces: “Welcome esteemed guest! Approach me.” What are you doing? I told you that you must defy him! He is strong but you are stronger! “Yes, that’s right. Come here, my friend.” No! Stop! You must stand your ground! Remeber why you’re here! Remember your life! If you get too close its all over. I watched it as it happened. Your willpower was warped. After you approached him, you just stood there and let him bite you. You’re one of them now. Go find your mask.

We are the filters of sound. Ears take me away.

I am an alien. I am ashamed. But mostly, I am an alien. I am not like the many on the side of ill reason, but I am forced to dwell in this world. This world that demands good looks and breeds emotions that make me feel separate from everyone. Emotions that are simply unwelcome. Ashamed. I am ashamed of my body. I am ashamed of my life. But mostly, I’m an alien.

I lost my spark. I can’t find a damn thing to write about. Every corny rhyme. All the stupid words. Nothing seems right. As I write this I’m compelled to delete it. It seems to lack a succinct message. Recently that’s how I’ve felt in all my communication. I am so fucking introspective that it hurts. I am rage. I am a corny and lame waste. I am running out of options. I want to keep ranting. I am so fucking sick. I can’t seem to write anything worth keeping. I have no muse. I’ve got no more poems left in me. At least for now since they were stolen out of me with the rest of my emotions. It hurts to know how obscure I am. People don’t talk to people who don’t talk so here I am talking to myself. I can’t seem to think straight anymore. Everything is pressing me into the smallest space. Without emotion there is no art. I’m a slave to sadness. Sadness is boring. People crave interesting things. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I don’t want to feel. I don’t feel well. I want to die. I want to kill my body so that my mind can fly away from all the carnality. I can’t make art. I can’t make art well. I have plenty of interesting and fucked up stories. I am a husk of rage. I am crying out loud and clear. Nobody here so I’ll have a beer. I needed help but it’s all too late. Nobody wants to help you when you’re already dead. Good night and good luck to my fat incarnation. Intense disappointment contrasted by hatred. Sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. I am not the answer. I need to sleep. I need to sleep. I need some help with sleeping. Revenue revel revelations reveal reviewed reviews revamped. Remember me. I am the one who came before and who knew everything except how to find love. My death is a testament of loneliness. Mortality sold for an aching chance of normalcy. Nicaraguan rattle snakes bite my spirit. Leeching all that’s left of me into the hands of the river of the damned. If I am damned I already know it. No use in praying for a sick-in-the-head and useless clutter of a human being’s shell left over from a whisper of hope in the ear of an ancient and unrelenting force of evil who has no hope of turning back to the goodness of greenness. Good news, goodness knows the game is over.

I could list the ways that I keep my emotions dead, but they persistently resurrect, so it would be pointless. I hope this note has been informative.

Entranced by the sound of freedom whistling from tree to tree, you are home. You sense the wildlife, the energy, and the hope that resides in the woods. After a journey into the majestic tranquility you begin to understand what your grandfather meant all those years ago about his first love being nature. Through the foliage you search. You’ve almost found it. And in an eager and desperate clamber you’ve reached another clue. Etched on the paper you hold closely are the directions to his haven. This last rock is the final step. Just beyond the edge sits his grove. His secret place only shared with you as his final wish. This is your chance to visit his soul one final time. Your tears begin to pour as you approach the opening. You can’t explain it or understand it, but you feel his presence. After a silence filled by birds chirping, you speak to him. After a silence filled with your heart beats, he responds by shaking the leaves. You close your eyes and you see him. You see a stronger and happier man than your final memories would have projected. His soul is really here. The man who taught you the wonders of nature. The man who taught you to respect all life. You hear him whisper and your tears become sobs. You let the emotions take you. You lay on your back staring at the canopy. Clouds roll by and the sun starts to lower. You’ve spent hours with him here in his sanctuary. As it becomes time to leave, you feel a warm and sudden comfort as if you know the true meaning of peace. Requiem has never felt so inviting. Happily you descend the small plateau. You head home with the warmth and comfort that your grandfather is at peace. You are affirmed in your knowledge that you will meet him again some day as long as you teach your grandson the same respect for nature. Nature is our mother. The forest owns us all. You are merely a vessel of its life.