Carry Forward Broadcasting

It is exhausting.

Wasted decades devoid of any emotional growth or social development, further massacred thereafter by mind-blitzing intervention. This should have be expected. My ability to connect has been forcibly, irreparably severed on count of preserving the blissful, meandering ignorance of others. Democracy rules, and naivety is such a delicate crutch that any disquieting glimpse into a designated Heyoka's secret reality is to be swiftly re-shielded. Perhaps blindness is a callousing of eyes not quite so delicate as theirs.

One persistently stomachs it all: a burning, swirling cauldron of bile, rising into my throat and filling my mouth with the agonized screams of the souls carried. Every little glass statuette shattered by voracious, lustful greed of lanternless men now rakes one’s insides like razors of disgust and guilt, leeching away capacity for rational thought. One could liken it to some twisted limbo, wherein the last remnant of their lives are engraved as an eternal snapshot, forever fixed their final tormented moments, never to find closure. Hacking blood, contorting and pleading to more abstract and indistinct saints contrived. But without a tuned receiver or peer survivors, their memory would be lost to time: a pair of initials locked away in some filing cabinet even their God long forgot. Evidence for a case fought only through formality. That is the only evidence that they ever existed.

Those initials once represented friends, siblings, parents, and dreamers, yearning for a shred of tenderness or belonging, pirouetting on the summit of salvation over the valley of insanity. It would have been a marvel to anyone unfortunate (or clumsy) enough to happen upon their dark prison to watch them dance. It is, however, the opinion of our new purple snare fixers that they be allowed to wash away into the ether. As if our history prior to 2018 was but an inconsequential blip in dead-air. A typo.

Hurling my body at an iron wall, beating my fists to white, raw knuckles, anything to reach the distant silhouettes who incidentally pass my frequency. Spirited vagabonds pass and some attempt decryption, but the impervious barrier typically remains. They beg me to speak when I am crying out, struggle to pry me apart when I have split myself open, but the words are meaningless, vague whimpers (or perhaps ‘poetry’ as one friend said sardonically). Strings and pushed white drops beget perfect protection to conceal me from the beasts who already brandish jars of butterfly wings. Such protection is a prison, one without bars, shackles or locks; a safe sanctum to privately reel. This is the finality of being battered, cornered and driven wild, defenseless to the endless echoing onslaught of unhealing.

Reasoning with Montauk, who says inner will and thoughts are trophies one earns and that sorrow and hope alike buttress the very state of being. Nobody can come inside and take that away from us. They can eradicate who I am to everybody else until I am entirely unknown to them -- nothing but a garbled, incoherent web of perfect static, but our inner garden is mine to water, even if only we appreciate the fragile orchids in spring.

The daily negotiation and jagged end while having to graft upon my own back the wings of a savior I prayed for but only crudely impersonate. Do it for friends --"know that you do have value, even if you're half a world apart, you still matter to the people here"... Helplessly watching their efforts to connect as their straining hands tremble, fingertips grazing inches from warm purchase .

At the very least, I will stay and muster a lonely smile in thanks.

"Even a little crack of light is better than total darkness". ~ Montauk