You ever get hit with such a bout of nostalgia it makes you light headed? Im not talking about revisiting Yu-Gi-Oh for the thirty time or singing Disney songs till your thought gets sore or drawing parallels between Harry Potter characters and political pundits or getting off to weird porn based around whatever intellectual property you ended up sexuallizing later on in life (or even the ones that you kinkshame yourself for getting off too) or even the shows and movies you make younger generations watch (with or without a critical eye) so you can vicariously relive the magic of those childhood fantasies. No. I’m talking about the nostalgia that comes up opout of you like repressed trauma. Some obscura for the depths of your memories so far back that they’ve not only become an element of your psyche but they turn out to be so fundamentally ingrained into you that they’ve somehow formed an imperfect piece to the puzzle of your mind. For me, that’s Card Captor Sakura.
Sure, that’s an excessively grandiose way of thinking, but hey, sometimes a show from your childhood shows up on netflix and you gotta grapple with the wave of “Oh god that thing” that threatens to drown the next few days in utter self-indulgence.
Stare into the monolith and the monolith stares back into you.
Rotting away what was once a promising mind, and now
In the battle field for every John, Jane, and Jeanybody’s creations to war
With the feeble spirits that make you up.
That’s still disgustingly excessive.
The world is burning.
Yesterday was the largest civil rights protest in the history of the world. In the capital of every state and in eighteen other countries. And I spent it watching anime and wirefu cinema. Too broke to buy supplies, wakin up at 7 pm and too much of a pussy to drive out so close to the curfew, and too white to do more than wallow in the rage and fear that’s slowly enlarging the tumors of my depression. And everybody loves to hear a white male het passing loser bitch about his feelings, right? (/s). Gotta monetize these shitty feelings somehow.
That’s the classic transmutation, isnt? Turn your pain into beauty, Art, expression merchandise any and every kind of profitable media, right cuz that lends some kind of purpose to it doesnt it? Makes it all somehow seem worth it through the validation of another’s dollar. But what if you cant make art? What if you cant find the magic circle to translate that anguish into something more than that more than. Civil service? Duty? Community?
And the pigs are stomping around.
Hoof prints on the neck of protesters, the true law of the land trampled into rags.
What happened to the good ole fascist punching america? Is it so hard to believe the badge obscures a perverted swastika?
There’s a world outside while you fester alive, great raging flames, the kids force the picket line while you lie awake worrying at night. They’re worrying too, they bare bruises broken bones the blood soaked roots of revolution tanglin in their minds and you watch clips online of their tragedy, enraged you find chambers to scream in yet at best you scrawl slogans on sidewalks in rock chalk cuz you’re too broke to even get the dollar store shit. Scribble BLM on your plague mask in sharpie so you’re mildly huffin at the grocery store gettin looks for your effort but no one really talks to you. No one ever really talks to you.
We cant resurrect people. We can bring back the selves we once were, once wanted to be, want to be.
Bloodshot eyes just another hour or so. Gettin tired of magical princesses then move on to Yu-Gi-Oh learn about friendship and deus ex pecto or shuffle on thru to Beetle Borgs anything to get that wrought iron monkey breathing down your neck to take half a break and let the sun come up it doesnt make any difference everything’s the same and constantly changing how many do we have left how many are there to get going and what’s there across the sky weeping again and none of it matters really you get the few inches you fought for for all of it to slide back in feet there’s something so evil brewing and that’s gotta be stopped so you burn burn burn like fireworks across the stark raving mad words by white guys whallowin in their eggshell world cuz that’s safe and relatable but you cant keep that going you cant sustain a suspect world already decades dead instead try to find dawn the new horizons for all of us to brave. Wounds get filled with scar tissue./ You’re sneezing out metaphoric bandages that only seem to help yourself. What can be done when everything is suspect?
The rumble ups beneath the street,
The shifting bones ground into powder to thicken the concrete.
We can always build new courthouses.
