Damn!!

Last night was like... well... it was like... daaaaamn! It was abso-fucking-lutely... uneventful. As usual. Nothing happened. I just slept and watched movies. That was it. I've also been kind of ill and totally out of it. So... there you have it. Nothing... just lounging.

The Space That Can't Be Filled...

For over thirty nights I have been consumed by my thoughts, lost in that space Charles Bukowski speaks of through his poem from his book "You Get So Alone at Times that it Just Makes Sense".

My whole life has been wasted trying to fill that empty space... that hole inside you that you wake up with one morning not knowing how it started, not knowing how to fix it. The emptiness that at times seems to burn you up inside, a feeling that makes you awkward and prevents you from fitting in. A darkness you are to afraid to stare in to because just maybe it might look back and swallow you whole. The more you try to fill that hole with whatever you can think of it just gets bigger and your soul gets chipped at each time you try until you fear the next attempt might completely take hole and destroy what little soul you have left. And so you spend every waking hour trying to fill that emptiness with what society deems acceptable and necessary to lead a righteous and happy life... but what "society" doesn't understand is that individuality, in my case, speaks so much louder than any of their rules and "how to's". My thoughts and feelings are my own and I cannot take upon myself or accept rules that would turn me into some high-functioning robot with no self-induced thought and always second-guessing my choices fearful that they might no be in conformity with what society expects. I would much rather accept the emptiness, the hole as it is because, like Bukowski says: even in the best of times we will know the empty space is there and we will forever wait in that space. I think that space is necessary, at least it is for me, to get in touch with all of my emotions, all of my being, with my nature so that I can breathe and live with the knowledge that, in life, there are no "happily ever afters". There are only a string of fleeting moments of bliss that are never enough to fill the space he writes of. 

"No Help For That", by Charles Bukowski

 there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than
ever

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

and

we will wait
and
wait

in that
space.

So... I guess that... what I'm saying... is that the past thirty nights have been introspective. They have been nights of getting lost in pages written that whisper to me and touch my soul (or whatever remains of it). The past thirty nights have been quiet, a time for meditation, a time of choices, a time to choose myself and accepting my failures and recognizing that I do have a space inside that cannot be filled. Maybe now it will stop growing every time I try to cram some sort of activity, person, project or even pretend it's not thee. And that is the worts. Ignoring the void inside yourself is pretty much similar to death. But it's the worst kind of death: it is a death of thought. So... this is me now... accepting myself with all my virtues and faults and  acknowledging that the space I tried my whole life to fill with random crazy things is always there, and always with me.