liminal spaces

Things are just so fucked up lately. I can’t tell my head from my ass and my ass from my elbows. But asses and elbows have never been a strong point for me. No matter; let’s get to the heart of this matter. Let’s get our heads straight and try to breathe evenly. My morals will not be needed for this exercise in truth. I can rarely go on one of these trips without my morals seriously sucking the life out it. Typically one of these trips just ends with an overwhelming sense of shame and foreboding for what might have been if only I had more faith. I can’t sleep tonite. It’s too fucking hot and a bit sticky. The last time I had one of these trips I prostrated myself on the dirty floor of my apartment in between the couch and the bed fiercely gripping a broken cd rom drive and a knife. There was a clear and eminent threat looming just outside. Lucky, though, that I had covered every window with tin foil so that evil creatures and such—like the evil demented though seriously wounded cat demon that had been after me for some time now—would have quite the trouble breaking through my set of defenses. I had to remain alert, aware, and poised for attack to protect my soul against this evil demented and seriously wounded demon cat. It had been following me for some time now. Always at the base of the stairs when I would cautiously open my apartment door and look out. The demon cat would snarl, raise up its back to show me he was thinking of me and give out a bloody screech. The demon cat, once it had my full and petrified attention, would pace back and forth at the base of my stairs, waiting for me. He was waiting for me to make any kind of move; he had me. I was his prey and he was beginning to feel impatient. So—like I mentioned earlier—I decided to prostrate myself in between my bed and couch, and wait for the demon cat to make his move. The little evil screeching fucker surely didn’t count on this. He already had me by the hair of my scrotum, but I would not give up so easily. I had to fight in any way I could. Violence had always been a good friend in the past, so that’s what I figured I would stick with now. Fuck anyone that would even think to dare to take away my moments of peace. I can only be at peace when the fucking demon cat had decided to get out of my life, at least temporarily; though he always comes back. None of this so far can coincide with on of those suicidal guilt journeys that some believe are what their god would have us do. Guilt and shame and such are for those with infirm minds and bowels. It keeps them busy in between changing sessions and simply wishing death would come riding in on a white horse to deliver them home. But fuck guilt, and shame too. They only lead to a quick and certain death of the senses, the mind, and the body. I don’t have time for meaningless bullshit like that. Self-excoriation can only take you so far; it does not in any way lead to any sort of enlightenment by any means. It is only when you—as executioner—lay down your weapons of self-affliction that the path leading to enlightenment can even be seen, let alone reached and walked upon.
These dark valleys that I stumble through. The various sorts of self-executioners that walk about wearing hoods and capes black as death. They actually smell of death as well, but a description so short is inept at describing these. What death smells like is not quite like the rotting flesh of a dead or dying animal. These walking dead reek of guilt and shame. That is what death actually smells like: guilt and shame. Hatred and anger are of course by-products of death. These executioners go about lashing out with animus, but this is simply an attempt to hedge off the guilt and shame. Denial is quite the bitch here. It is their lifeblood and the oxygen that they breathe. Survival—for lack of a better word—depends greatly upon gripping tightly to denial and pressing it hard and close to your chest. This is a memorial for where one’s heart used to reside.
I think I enjoy walking amongst the dead and dying. Not that it proves that I am alive, not by any means. That is certainly not the case. Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t take much more. When I walk amongst the dead, I sometimes feel more at ease, relieved and heartened in a demented way. I can’t be happy in many situations at all. They all lead to this reckoning; this reeking stench of death, but with the intentions of bringing to God’s love. That is all I want, but when I go after it all I find is death. So why not, then, search after death? I have indeed, tried everything.
There is one thing that I know for sure. It is that love—in all its simple glory—can fill in the gaps that crack open and exist because of our fear and hatred and guilt. The only mistake is that the way to love is not through fear or hatred or guilt. Love is what I want. I would worship it if I could. When I worship love, I am worshipping God. I am talking to Him. I talk to Him. Not the god of fear and guilt. I know what love feels like and I know what its absolute absence feels like.
But I thirst for this enlightenment, and for God’s love, and for love. What is stopping me from finding it? Have I even been looking, let alone searching? I cannot say. One thing I can say is that I cannot run and I cannot and will not hide. Fuck this guilt and shame and fear. No more, no more. Is that cowardice or is that just a human being?