Scrapyard

Change is an unnatural state, we’re fickle slabs of metal, purpose built cars refusing to be taken consciously by the crusher at the scrapyard. Yet as the metal contorts and writhes you’ve got to wonder is the damage eternally irreversible?

The past collides with the present, I’m watching the future float out of eyesight, like it always does. My chest tightens at night, by the time sleep comes around existence slowly becomes nought but hideous semantics. Leading to the discovery that trying to be a good person is harder than being a selfish piece of shit, who’d have guessed?

If the beginning really was the end, then what is this? The aching epilogue after the fact? Perhaps the beauty of reaching this point is that a thousand doors open and whatever’s behind them leads to unfathomable answers entangled in the intimate embrace of her, the dreamer.

For so long the solipsistic hills of my internal machinations have become taller and taller. Creating an aura of insurmountability that has left me stricken with guilt and grief. Yet from the sights within that place, I’ve slowly learnt acceptance and growth. Things I never thought I’d become acquainted with.

I’m clinging to my cigarette like a new born to its mother. Amidst the smoke I’ve clocked on that the card dealer is playing a tad fairer than usual. Regardless the game stays the same and so I find myself seeking disconnection from it. As with all disconnect though there’s usually a tincture of growth spilled into it. Leaving me half-way through the process of unlearning bad habits and traits. Only to find the disease of paranoia asserting itself. Knotting my veins, and dirtying my boots.

My old type of living was a swirling maelstrom of hateful, years long self-destruction. You don’t get a chance to look back on everything, the madness, the misery and the people entwined with you in that, people I wish could see my growth rather than be stuck with the bleak image of my worst traits. When all the destruction stops and you choose the path that you hope is healing and growth you discover that a gaping void has taken up residence inside of you. Housing a warped malignant creature that follows you everywhere, not as an enabler but a reminder that this is who I was and perhaps who I’ll always be defined by or at least my own head will define myself by.

You know, I’ve heard it said your worst self might be your best self. The concept that our worst traits may very well be the ones we need, that ensure our survival in the moment and are the ones we thrive on. All the little insalubrious needs and selfish desires we need to truly be ourselves. Fuck knows if they’re right.

If there truly is a concrete belief in morality then the moralists must surely be just as bad as those they commentate on. There’s too many easy metaphors to pick from that and I can’t say the easy way is my usual route. Alas having seen the presences and connections that helped me become who I am buried right before my very eyes, the easy way was a route I wish I was better acquainted with. 

Now here I am trying to keep it all together and grow from my mistakes and past whilst the puzzle stares in front of me, yearning to be pulled apart.