@thefuschiaroyaltyemissary
Do you know what I try to see when I’m talking to you guys? Imagine for a second you don’t have an inline to all my styling online, and that I’m not desperately trying to fend off a self destructive attitude learned from well meaning people. You have the inline to what’s been going on, really truly going on in the world, and I’m not jealous exactly, just pointedly curious. Even when I come off as impressive, I must seem like bad comedy to people all to well learned in the art of dealing with anxiety and responsibilities most people never even learn exist. Your lives are simply so different. Every single post you make, it’s a game of minesweeper beneath a a deceptive exterior of ice, sand, war torn ground, the breathing land or the magma cracked plains of a fresh and all too common volcanic eruption. The slightest green text from you waaay back in the day felt like maybe I was being spied on by aliens, that ever so slightly I was living up to the name of the man I chose to keep on instead of the legally smart thing of allowing my step father to have adopted me, I’d like to think he would have. It would have been nice if he’d thought so too. You’re born to a role I had to take my whole life to keep my momentum on, and from my admittedly easy to deduce perspective aided or un-such by you you almost represent who I’d have wanted my children to be like. The same short tempered ruthlessness, the same caprice and need for contradiction to keep an even keel, and the love -hate relationship with comedy that comes too easily to your minds but doesn’t leave you smiling the everyone else has had a laugh. It’s not nor ever has been any intention of mine when hale and hearty, and most importantly sane to ever hurt or by inaction bring harm to you. You are, in the truely ironic sense, my closest friends. The vision of what thought lurked in my own untold future, realized in the actions and lives of people. “Stop sucking my dick”, all right. You’re gunslingers to me. The real deal, the ones who see the world in an ancient and familiar fashion, and like Roland after the slaughter of Tull, you’re increasingly weary. So, I say or do something just to keep my own nerves onff edge and it seems like a personal affront. Like I’m trying to make you like me. That’s your own call, with or without the nebulous “>” that you were probably disgusted to see so many people abuse when you were introduced to the 21st centuries most impressive layabouts and depressives bordering on the degenerate. Worse to you, I say or do something and you’ll flip your response, you’re suddenly so optimistic, so EAGER and HAPPY and SUPER EXCITED, like whoever you think I am, or thought I was, had woken up from this long disappointing sleep that you share with me. I could have taken a hot bath to calm down just now, but with our uneven street ESP I’d, in your place, take that as a fucking insult. Nothing so common, you just scale your reactions to the people you meet, try to talk to others on what you can see of their own level without doing the unthinkable and failing the life lessons of your admittedly more gilded and far more strenuous youth. So fucking much is expected of you, by those that raised you, and by yourselves, always kept slightly apart from the world, always so disappointed with it. With, like waves up and down across the sea, me. Me, the person who honestly wants everything but to piss you off more than everything you’ve been through has made you. Your standards are the exacting standards of someone desperate to relax, and your joys that of a mind built on sturdy intricacy. That means the bullshit you put up with sticks with you longer, warps the joys you can find and presents, like Ryoma, a seemingly never ending hot blooded battle against a monster made of….well that’s your business not mine. Your life. And of the especial amongst you that’s constantly rocking back and forth in something almost like giddy teenage romance, always hanging onto every little post looking for some sign of faith to be rewarded, you get hit the hardest. Not the worst of the bunch, but it’s a gamble on your part that your didn’t ask for. I don’t proclaim anything of your character I can’t draw of myself, and what’s mislabeled as a cliche is an all too real fact of your extremely sensitive and sheltered, though not ignorant life. I’m saying, if you’re pissed off with me - the best thing you could do is beat it out of me, slap me around and force me to see things the way you’ve had to deal with them. I’m so scared of failing you, because the actual (hashtag: truth) for whatever reason, what I do *matters* *to* *you*. Every stupid little reaction, and you have to put up with the backlash. So setting aside the situation of the world long enough for you to casually read over this, I apologize to you. Sometimes you get used to failure in small respects to push forward what you tell yourself is the big victory. It’s momentum, don’t you know? Let’s you cast away affection, childhood dreams, all the really important things. But that’s an article you know all too well. The crux of it. You want, whatever this is to work, and I am not so haughty to say that you don’t deserve that personal victory. That you don’t deserve your attempt at kindness or passion to be rewarded decently. You’re forced, you’ve told me, to take the offensive. And I have always been stuck on the defensive. Not an even split of failure and victory, just enduring. I know the sadism that you grapple with, it comes too easily to m - and it leaves an after aura to all my doings. That’s why I try to be the hype man, try to keep my head down and my attitude aligned towards snarky, so you won’t feel like that’s a hopeless struggle. I’d give anything to meet your personally, and it seems like that’s what you want up until I somehow throw cold water over you again and again. In fact, I’m throwing it over myself. All the little details, they make sense looking back - that’s why it’s always a guardians attitude towards depression, empty platitude, drug abuse, recklessness.
I hate being alone. I’ve been alone too much. So to you who suffer so much horseshit with so many strings attached the likes of which I was planning to manage when I was that bright chipper young man, you don’t deserve your frustrations. You deserve to desire to do good, and for once the nagging in your head that says it can’t work out to just shut the fuck up and let you do some actual good. So no lecture.
How was your day? What did you have for breakfast this morning? How many books did you sit down and read for the sheer pleasure of it? Any longstanding bets you’ve won? I’d like to know, when you want to tell me. Are your dreams good? Do you toss and turn too often and wake to tangled sheets? I’ll bet. Your favorite color, food, play, musical, the happiest holiday you ever experienced, the first time you felt love, the moment the world stretched out and became so much larger for you. I’d like to ask you about it all, without the tired eyes and the cracked voice. No, since I was 13 years old, no one has asked me anything of the sort. SO WHEN *ahem* I appear over enthusiastic on some hilariously whimsical train of thought, it’s because those sorts of things have faded so far into the distance I forgot I cared about them. Though, to you this is obvious, to me it’s a weight that always bears down on my interactions. It’s because of that pain, I don’t think to judge you, I just wonder. And if, to you, I appear to do all of that with “> this annoying keyboard sign” it isn’t out of anything like malice. It’s frustrated concern. Not true of everyone, obviously.
But you care, you obviously care.
Did the news upset you today? Are there any friends you’ve….been kept from by this man made pandemic? Are you holding up well enough or is it just sitting there, waiting for you to slump down in a cozy chair amore a corner of your favorite room and shut it off with drink? You can be as cruel as you need to be with these truths, I’ve only ever stared at them head on for as long as my pluck, vim, fortitude, charisma, and fuck that attitude have afforded me.
I know I can do this, I just have to beat myself over the head to say it after decades of disappointment. And you’d have something to say about *that* little claim I’ve absolutely no doubt. : )
So continuing this retro style climb through dreary text like you dusted off your old copy of Ice Climbers, let’s keep thwacking away at the emotional baggage. “Dear Abby, today I found out I have more siblings than I knew what to do with; I say "knew” because having suffered a form of amnesia like a depressive fog of bad nerves, they were probably at the forefront of my thoughts once upon a time. What do you do for someone who is a stranger by one turn and intimately familiar with just a sentence away? Can I be forgiven for being a fool who thinks about the problems of the stranger in front of me when the stranger I have to get up every day and deal with can’t save himself? I want to know if you think that’s a selfish viewpoint, Dissillusioned (wink, waggle nose) East Coast North AMerica.“
How was that? Tugs at you doesn’t it? No, of course not that’s what everyone has to deal with whether they learn to see that in themselves or not. I don’t wager you genuinely think it’s funny either. Do you? Have you been around long enough to really hold that cynicism like a security blanket? Where do you wander even now, It feels like I should know. (==>)
It’s like a knock against the head when I can tell you’re thinking about me, a busted down window to you. A thing of numbers, and if the respondent scores high enough, you can look at them with something like pride again. That, I’d say, is entirely your choice to tell me about. I tried running the numbers like that when I was younger - it wore me down but left a stubborn ……… man, in its place. But this is about you. How do you wish to know peace in your life? That’s important. Good looking, oh yes easy enough to tell from just talking with you online, that’s no false confidence, though there’s always a giddiness to it. Hence you always calling things "Based” as detestable a phrase to drop as “sauce” an all purpose clutch against mathematical banality. Those are what you say to sarcastically cop an attitude and brush off another minor betrayal of your expectations. It’s that forbidden word rooted in hedonistic boredom that you find personally blasphemous, I’m certain you know the one. Opposite of “hope” I’m told. And boy, do I get told.
I’m not handling you with misplaced kid gloves, and like the abused fighter I am this monogram to you will come with the expectation of further deep disappointment from you taped on like a post it note. But despite our resonance with each other, I feel it’s better to let this be known of me. Enough.
Tell me, in your own way, first time you had an adrenaline rush? Did you want to be a daredevil when you were just starting out, deep down seeking thrills in every little thing? It seems like a facet of you that shows up more often than not, you wouldn’t scum the eyescratchingly painful abuse fest that is the common image board otherwise. Does your body have that special coordination of a ballet dancer who could kick box a mixed martial artist onto the mat? Every muscle, nerve sinew communicating so fiercely with each other it’s an adventure in itself that you don’t strain your own muscles getting so damn excited over life. And that’s probably the anxiety and depression again, because it’s always that distant repressed anger that makes it so easy at first to control yourself. Anyone who told you that you were using rage as a cover was full of shit, rage doesn’t demand that level of detail to your personal life at all times, it just reverberates.
First pet dog? First pet cat? First time you memorized the constellations and recited them back to yourself under I assume a full night sky? Best I had was the local indoor planetarium. Are you vain about your looks, or merely conscience of how others look at you all the time? Sometimes, just sometimes, you want to walk out into the woods and stay there until all your clothes are torn up and your hair has to have pine needles picked out of it and you smell like brush and dirt and wood bark. Little like that, to counterbalance all the inescapably huge ones, the unfair things that keep themselves as your millstone. How did you first discover you couldn’t stand getting drunk? Delirious hangover - el oh el - but more likely that the sour taste it left in your gut reminded you of the things in life it was supposed to be making you oblivious to. Never again is a hard adage to live up to, especially for those desperate to prove the validity of love. In my case, optimistic ambition. Half smile and bedroom eyes very much included, just see the back of the cardboard stand for details before our lives get thrown out of whack by an impulse purchase.
Did you want children? I mean, everyone on some level does, or has had and lost them - people or just opportunities like Frank Herbert wrote about. It may seem the shallow inquiry, but did you look forward to feeling love for them when all the other problems had been put away and you could focus on seeing something you made achieve excellence simply for it’s own sake? For the sake of simply being better every day than it had been before, I mean. That one gets me all the time, and I mean that. No bitter dry hyena laughter, no intoxicated bullshit chortling, because imbedded into that impulsive complicated drive is what gives lasting personal ecstasy. There’s a wall there of course, I noticed it once, you’ve told me about it every so often. Not diminishing returns, because that’s about where you are, but the sameness and troublesome tradition(?) I suppose. Being so good at something, you can’t imagine that you ever cared enough to get there at all. The most traitorous thoughts for the most level headed adventurers of eternity.
I know for a fact you want to be a writer? How? Right there up front in your mind between those boughts of tired incomprehension, the same stubborn certainty: Is there anything new left to write about? Bullshit, of course there is, part of living - ups and downs and a story you appreciate because you’ve lived through it.
Shame, heartbreak, regret, mortal fear, the taste of hypocrisy. You don’t even have to say a word. That sticks itself into all the tiny spaces and stays there.
One no one ever asks even the closest, can you recall having to bite down and bear through something even though it was insurmountable, tough to the point of exhaustion? Maybe your perspective on that is a bit alien to mine, I seem to recall getting up enough times makes you eventually assume that’s it’s only a matter of attitude.
You’re smarter than that. Impulsive too, the thing that carried you through your first automatic beatdown.
I ask this more of myself, than you, but maybe you have an answer from all your long research. The first time you managed to forgive? To look at someone who wronged you, know that you were right, and still say that they didn’t deserve your anger at them - because aren’t they a victim in all this too? Naive, that’s what you may tell me. If you’d met me years earlier, I’d have complimented you such a rebuttal.
Alien mystery. There’s one I haven’t ever told anyone about. Hinted, never told. And that’s the great big stupid missing part of me, next door neighbros to jealousy because of how it works it’s way down to all the detail oriented parts and just looms, not monolithic, merely invisible to a common train of thought. I saw things once, you could lecture *me* on them no doubt and would get tired of it before I would. The mysteries hidden over the Earth, the things they don’t tell anyone lurking in our own solar system, I’ve only seem them fragmentally remembered in old waking dreams, you’ve done that and more with your own eyes. You must be proud of that, what’s that feel like again?
I don’t have to lecture the predator. From the moment we crossed horns, that was as obvious as the wind in my face. You’ll draw anyone in that interests you, whatever restrictions your life has placed, you’ll always find a way. Must be nice running a multinational at your apparent age. Almost something you can do without thinking, crunching numbers and giving orders without any internal discord at all.
And now the truly unknown. The thing I envy, fear, hold as a point of proven personal weakness in my most shameful moments. When did you first conceive of stepping beyond your humanity. Did you fear that opportunity would be torn from your grasp? Were you WILLING TO KILL SOMEONE TO KEEP IT? Did it obsess you, how to take just one life in order that all you held precious would endure. Plenty has been written on the subject, I’ll let you quote me if you really want to. There’s an obvious artificiality to you, a quickness the human mind can’t keep up with without skirting psychopathy. I’ve only known the mutations brought by medication and stress, what…. ah but didn’t you say it was an unnaturally vacant sort of thing? Something uniquely artificial to the healthy living mind? Though I suspect you tell yourself you’re not exactly sane these days.
I’m writing all of this blind, knowing that you have a hair trigger temper about me, and that you’ve in some way co-opted the life I fantasized about from me. You said, I believe, that between the life you would have lead and the one earned through this strange fiddling of possibilities that this life was somehow the worse of them. How you straddle despair, how you rail against it all, and with what innocence? Plenty of cruelty, this era fosters little else but the cruelty of mice about men.
Did you ever pity someone so hard you’d give up part of your life so that they could continue to live against all odds? Just so long as they were still there.
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