It seems bizarre to me.
My whole life has been spent with death knocking, bony hands pounding on windowpanes at three in the morning...radio hum unintelligible comfort soothing sound waves pounding the demons into quietude as the morning breaks. I see my wife, my friends, my parents, my little kitties batting around fake mice...and i feel intruder blood bursting at my temples, a problematic systematic decay dropping me to my wooden knees, splinters cutting seams and I drop out my skin, seeping through carpet fibers...
Sometimes it pays to just stay ignorant, sports scores replacing birthdates, celebrity gossip replacing funeral procession memories/ forward momentum into every wall in the god damn house. I disqualify myself for lacking hate, and craving love and safety, a distinctly un-punk attitude. I want balance, little reminders of my worth, small wonders to make the big picture more palatable.
It's bizarre when the pain just doesn't figure in anymore.
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