ground level

Another night.
Another glass of whiskey and coke.
Another cigarette.
And time continues to descend through the cosmos.
Recent weeks have been enveloped in blackness. Creativity has been an empty well. Inspiration, nonexistent.
I made a vain attempt to maintain communication with L but two text messages buried any hope of a friendship. "Fuck off and go away... I don't want to be friends with you!"
I've damaged her, and in doing so, damaged myself. I'm certainly no stranger to self-inflicted pain, and despite the number of scars -- physical and emotional -- it hurts every time.
Like a beautiful cathedral from some foreign land I think of L every day. I'm riddled with guilt and remorse for what I've done because I've had my heart and hopes dashed countless times. Now, the blood is on my hands.
Last Sunday, I walked along the same trail we had wandered several weeks ago. As I walked alone, I could clearly recall some of the things we discussed when we walked together. And when I drive around town or as I lie in bed her ghost slips inside my mind and a memory as fresh as yesterday floods my heart, and for a brief moment I have to remind myself that she's gone, despite the realness of the memory.

I haven't spoken to Mother in a week, two weeks, I don't know. Any conversation would ultimately lead to the train wreck that is Sister, and I don't need to hear about her problems/lies, not now. What difference would it make if we were to discuss Sister? She is just another human being roaming the face of the Earth. Whatever meaning Mother or I try to attach to her life is fruitless. Human beings create the meanings, or lack thereof, to our lives (see: existentialism).
I believe we all have self-perceived holes in our identities. Some choose to fill these holes with god or some higher force. Others choose drugs, legal or illegal (ultimately, what's the difference between the two?). Others search for love. Others find sex as their opiate, the plug for their hole. But what if there is no real remedy for the cavity in ourselves? What if our consciousness is always conscious of something -- and that something is simply our existence, our beating heart?
The hour is late, but, in future posts, I plan to expand on some of the concepts expressed in this entry.

Good night and good luck.

mc