<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d33206271\x26blogName\x3dThe+Fine+Art+of+Falling+Apart\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dTAN\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttps://fineartoffallingapart.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_US\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://fineartoffallingapart.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d6081200608643811586', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

About

This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.

I'm really invisible


Matt Good
Originally uploaded by
Dan Lilly.


This is a photograph from Dan Lilly who has the excellent opportunity to take in studio photographs on the work of the new album.

It's hard to look at pictures like these and not feel jealous. They're clear, sharp and evoke something in my head that won't shut it up. Nag, Nag, Nag.

Just the past few hours I feel like I'm slowly going invisible. Like a ghost that never was. We can be invisible without being dead. I look at the girl's insulin vials and push thoughts from my head. Their blood is too sweet, I suppose.

I'm alone right now, except for Buckley. There are some I can call, but I don't feel like talking to them. I feel like talking to someone who knows how it feels to slide under the haze of the lorazepam pollution and not feel the guiltiness that should come hand in hand with how often I feel I need to slide one into my mouth.

The job is making things worse. No routine, no set sleep schedule so I feel like I'm high when I'm at home, and part of the real world when I'm outside.

I thought I was getting better. You know? Getting away from somewhere, setting back up in a 'real' life, fighting my moods, and the stupid highs and lows, my impossible thoughts and aruments about existentialism and my place in the world.

Like water going down the drain, I wonder what happens when we shut off the tap.
Won't someone help me hold this flashlight?

Labels: , , , , ,

You can leave your response or bookmark this post to del.icio.us by using the links below.
Comment | Bookmark | Go to end