A smart man recently told me I can’t succeed without a broken heart. I laughed. People must think I’m so smug.
I don’t know if what I’ve experienced over the past couple weeks has been a dream -- these great and potential promises…or opportunities. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, across the room or on my balcony, stirred from conversation with a mysterious gentleman in a suit whose face I try to ignore. At some point in our conversation, I bump my head or shin and realize I should go back to bed, to try and fall asleep before I think too much about what has again transpired, with growing frequency…before I remember again, the emptiness I feel when I look into his voided eyes.
Los Angeles is screwed. Or it’s me. I need everything. I need so much, worry and hope I’ll never be fulfilled. I can’t wait. No calming talents remain. Today, I was at the gym from 630-8, again from 1230-145, and again from 5-8…consciously obsessive, for clearance. I was reaching for something, some sort of fix because I couldn’t work and didn’t want to fuck or think. In these situations, I know little else to do.
And there’s not enough money to leave again.
…
A broken heart. I started drinking yesterday at 11 after deeming it appropriate to induce feeling. I wanted to get 5 hours into my shift at work, doing rounds on tables, and come crashing down from the Guinness and Jameson and Baileys. I wanted to feel a brutal moment of life, to tempt the bottom to find me, to scream it away until my eyes would bleed, because…
So many things I can’t talk about here or anywhere. Just because.
Either way, it was coming. I’ve known for weeks now, coming off this high…of creation, of seeing and feeling and willing a scripted world that was mine but wasn’t…this world not capable of reciprocating the love I’ve given. Stories don’t matter at this point, just that they’re told and out. And this last one I told felt like love, clearing away all my lust and sadness and anger, like I was inducing an artificial peace in hopes it would correct me – like I was cheating – all along knowing I would be punished for it.
It feels like Sunday, dragging forever, but it’s Tuesday…or Wednesday. And I can’t tell myself everything will be better by Friday, or next Tuesday, or a month from now, or a year or ever. All I can see is a clock that reads 1:24 and it’s not moving. It may never again move. This is mine, bliss turned to shit and raging through my veins, poisoning me, my mind. I have to respect it.
…
Selectively, selectively falling in love with the places and things and people I can’t attain, to have this bastard thing nagging and pleading and scorching inside. What else have I ever known but broken…
I want to pull it out and eat it, show it off, spit it into every face I see.
There is no rescue.
