You will be my garbage disposal for now.

I remember when I used to believe everything I wrote was sent as a present from above. The omnipotent poet. Walking around with pockets full of words and broken syntax and thinking that those lines were invincible. Indestructible. Invulnerable and meaningful and fucking awesome.

The wisdom of a 17 year old is baseless. Shit, the wisdom of a 23 year old hardly holds ground for me too. I'm moving out of that Walt Whitman superman writer stage. I am fully aware that the majority of the thoughts I compose are rhetoric. Sometimes juvenile. Premature births others. Vomit. I'm transitioning into my worst critic, and it feels right. Like growing out of your shoes or cutting your hair.


However, right now my mind is constipated. Backed all the way up to my ego and I have to dump these thoughts somewhere before I can start over. Shitty analogy, but thats pretty much all I'm getting right now. I've lost the luxury of chemical fuel for this process; more so, I gave up on it. Addiction is the one thing I strongly believe we can utterly give up on without regret. Regardless of the caged mindset and identity faults, it gives light to areas that I haven't seen in a decade. With the ability to only use 20% of our brain, I'm pretty sure I only had access to about 5. Maybe 3. And the same words were on repeat, skipping like a broken record. Whinny. Misplaced. Embarrassing.

There's been two things I've noticed since my break up with drugs. One is that I dream. And not like Martin Luther King or children but simply residual dreams. For as long as I can remember, my dreams haven't made sense. I always felt like once my eyes closed, my mind just picked an idea or image and twisted it into a balloon animal and by morning, I just popped it and said 'whatever'. But over the past few weeks, I can vividly describe sections of dreams like I lived them. And I can draw meaning out of them. Somedays its fucking scary.

I spent the hole last year of my life living in this victimizing, contorted and disturbed realm of a fictional relationship. The reason I didn't simply say 'dream relationship' is because truthfully, the experience was horrifyingly painful. The person treated me like toilet paper. And I never once... NOT once... had a dream about the actual person. I could never fathom how she would look face to face or how we would interact in person and so my mind would always just draw in some other comfortable image in her place. Sometimes, I'd identify the image as 'said person'. But it wasn't her. At all.

I've had 2 dreams in the past week where 'said person' actually showed up and made a cameo. Both times were brief. But both made complete sense. The first dream, I was walking around on crutches. I believe my legs worked just fine but I was still hobbling around gimped. Somehow, I was hanging out with Holly Madison (which would be the last thing I ever would want to do) and as I was limping around Las Vegas, we ran into a group of her Peep Show girls. There was maybe 5, and all of them were faceless except for one. It was 'said person'. I remember leaning over and introducing myself awkwardly. She decided to not make eye contact at all with my pathetic display and proceeded to free style terribly. I laughed. The next thing I remember was falling. Straight onto my back. The crutches gave out and as I'm laying seeing nothing but her to look up to, I asked 'said person' if she could help me up. She wouldn't. She continued to rap hilariously and look everywhere but down at me. If I still pissed the bed, I think that dream would have been justifiably urine worthy. Total embarrassment.

If that doesn't make sense to you, go fuck yourself. That dream summarizes my entire 2010. And for the first time, I actually felt that feeling of bewilderment and abandonment. I woke up in tears and hoped that fucking balloon would pop but it didn't. The universe made that one stick around.

The second thing I've noticed since the split is a need for change. In almost every way, but mainly in my narrative voice. It's started to annoy me. Same song. Same dance. Broken record. Withdrawals wasn't just from the drugs, it was also from my writing. And after I pound out a few of these arbitrary, less then meaningful blogs... I'm going to start over fresh. Or at least see what happens when I attempt to. New is always good. I'm looking every direction but behind me. Some of what I'm seeing is scary, but mostly... its fucking beautiful.