I wrote this 2 days before our Pop-Up Shop but didn’t post it because I didn’t want my supporters to know how terrible I had been feeling.
Most times I’m running. Not to get anywhere other than away. I know the circle closes and this relaxing lapse is after all just a lap that stops exactly where it starts and my heart breaks when it’s over. Because at the end of something this exhausting I’m the only one around for complaining, hurting, arguing and talking and the sad, sad fact of the matter is I’m most mad because I’m still sober, in my own bullshit scenic stink walking, but I can’t drink the bridge nor the troubled waters away. And there’s a speed bump or two that have veered me out of the ranks of top contention. I’m just trying to get over. I’m just trying to have honor and I’m just trying to be a father and trying to do art and I’m just trying to be loved and considered cool less than I’m considered smart but I can’t win, let alone get myself an honorable mention. Cus I don’t go to trade shows and I do everything in a way that isn’t considered industry convention. I need a room full of friends, a camera crew and some support to say “We love you, Bryan, don’t try to kill yourself, please.” Well, I won’t, stupid. I hope, stupid. I’ve made a fool of myself, a scene of my life, a dream on a float paraded and I’m quite certain that given a silent camera shutter and an Instagram account you’d sooner put your phone to it than reach out a helping hand to put my strandedness at ease. Because the only possible way I can have my ear this close to the street all the time is to be laid out on the ground. All the fucking time. I’m out on my feet. It was never cool to be me just cool to see me try to escape the quicksand, just cool enough to applaud, cool enough to gasp, cool enough to laugh when the only thing stopping me from falling completely over when standing on guard for my brand was the fact I could use being hurt as a kick stand when I was parked somewhere between a bar and being broke. I do have dad issues and I don’t speak to my mother nor do I recall the last time that we spoke. I do fear everyone that comes near me whether they’re a brother, officer or potential lover cus I’m provoked into thinking they’re either gonna leave me or stick around only because it’s fun to beat up the guy who is only okay when he’s brutally hurt. When he’s usually bruised, unusually useful when stupidly down, and he frowns while you applaud how he works. Because 2 hands clapping sounds like one hand punching. Because a like is not a love and even if it was it’s only virtual. And I’m still a person. I still complain because I’m still alone almost 24 hrs a day like I’m still on house arrest, still placed in a storage room, basement or facility where I’m not allowed to stand up if there’s cutlery on the table because me and the other 8-16 year olds are violent enough to kill any tough guy 20 something that claims he is currently trill on Twitter. But who am I kidding? The damage I’ve done to the “game” is only trumped by the damage I’ve done to my liver trying to tolerate the league and all the other players. Cus for the most part I’m not called a hero, I’m not called a champion, I’m not at all acceptable by the circles that I can’t be in because I’m way too emo and I’m less attached to accolades than I am attached to failures. And so I say my other life is perfect and I refuse to praise a savior. I’m used to saving graces being shooting double Jamesons. I’m through convincing company I’m good in bright lit places while I’m sweating in the bathroom because my brain dislikes its face. But I need machismo. I need confidence. I need to speak the lingo more than speaking common sense since it’s sexy that sells. It’s scary. It’s obscure that tips the scales and I don’t skate or dress in black. The last straw collapsed the camel but the hearts been broke since it first cracked and here I am in all my glory, crying like a bitch. Sighing at my life. Trying not to listen to the violining knife that wants to play the strings of wrists like all of this was done in vane. Because while you’re also quite different that doesn’t make us both the same, it just means that your version of alone isn’t as hollow as where I am. The echoes aren’t quite as loud. The audience doesn’t know applause is often followed by a cloud and this rain on the top is more than enough to drown me. God, I never had an ark. I never had a part. I never got the play. I always had a spark but the fire was astray so while I went towards insanity my friends all went away. Or told me I just needed to go out tonight. Like a beer was all I needed. A bitch. A 60 and a blow job. A fix through a nose job affixed to a hundred. Or maybe I should go on vacation. Because while the outside sees a paradise I feel a deserted sense of being stranded on an island where I don’t wanna stay. And so I run. I run like somehow the ghosts will tire with a thirst to finish and a burst of fire that burns my descent with a raised desire and a level of commitment that says, “This will all make sense soon”. Because I need it to. Otherwise my past catches up and I lose the sprint. I throw the race. I never stand in my presumed place on a podium knowing I’d rather jump to my death than raise my hands to the praise. I never really liked the attention. It was affection I was looking for and now that it’s here it feels far too foreign for me to welcome it home or sample it’s fruit. A tree grows crooked when it’s spoiled at the root. And I’m still searching. Still dying for my life. Because I was never chasing a dream, I was running from a nightmare. And either way it feels I’m never quite there.