The Seed.

Do I stay inside the confines of these four walls to help me forget about the confining four walls of my mind? My 'unintentions' are perhaps subconscious.

Being tired is a lot like being intoxicated. It grants you the ability to write off all of your mistakes, and short comings, and failures as just something that comes with the territory which you can later deny and suppress as not really being all your fault. Look at how far you've come, you're allowed a little leeway for fuckery. Excuses really. Pathetic excuses.

In bed, amongst a bevy of half empty water bottles, and take out containers, my only window to the outside world paints a somewhat diluted picture. So long as it doesn't face the outside world head on, I am free to live in my delusions. And really, freedom is everything.

It's always been something or another. Alcohol, or drugs, or food, or cigarettes, or men, or pain. Some vices are easier to control than others. Some vices have exit stratagies, that work for short periods of time, until I find myself back at square one. Where is square one exactly? Well, in reflection, I might say 'square one' is the inability to define my reality, so I finds ways to escape it.

You might find that my vices are all one and the same. After all they serve the same master.

The Seed:

Plant any seed, and in the right conditions it will grow. Often times into something intended. Into what it was always meant to be. Miraculous, and awe inspiring despite it's humble beginnings. But sometimes the growth takes on a life of its own, and spreads wildly out of control, and then something that was once meant to be beautiful, in containment, becomes something destructive when left unattended. And that I suppose is where the story begins.

I've never been a person who believes other people when they say they have 'childhood memories' of say, bumping their head. They are told the story of when they bumped their head. They see pictures of themself as a small child with a band-aid where they bumped their head. But they don't actually remember bumping their head. They manifest the memory based on verbal and visual accounts of the incident and pass it off as 'I remember'. Having said that, I remember at the age of three almost poking my eye out. I remember not seeing any blood in the mirror, but knowing I had a bloody eye. I remember the banana popcicle I got for being so brave. After all banana popcicles are my favourite.