Diary of a Broken Soul

I’m a miserable self-loathing piece of shit. I’m hidden, in hiding among the insects, between the cracks all around us, waiting it out, and then again I am nothing at all. Everyone always wants to know what I am doing. I lie and say nothing. When really I’m writing down every stupid thing they say, every unfortunate thing they do in my mind or right onto the paper. Profit off of their in securities and their secrets. Each one forming a character inside my head. An excuse to make sure in some way they are dead. I don’t know it’s a process of letting go.

A lady, a bitch, a person with a vagina and tits told me today. She told me the corn tortillas are too hard. Too hard compared to what? Flour, I’m unhappy. I’m not sure at all. Have something to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue. My mind clicks, gears churning trying to not get stuck, trying to not destroy myself from within, and no words come out. A simple smile and nod as visions of beating her to death with corn tortillas dance in my head. No one speaks to me here anymore so, I thought I’d share some words with myself. Madness, I live in a world of madness. It clogs up my brain. Full of nothings and repetitive bull shit. She was white in case that matters, but here in Texas we are all Mexican at heart. Denounce our true existence as if we could hide our bronzed over skin or retarded fucking accents if we get the chance. Ingrained and in breed the sun seeps through the cracks on the walls. It finds its way in for no reason at all. Taunting us to come outside and see the big ass Texas blue sky.

I fail to heed the call preferring to stay inside the majority of the year. Winter, spring, summer, fall doesn’t matter the season I hate every second here. Every moment that I have to deal with these people. These outsiders that come from all over the United States bringing with them their problems they thought they had left back home. Instead they only tow them right to our door step, right in our face, and all they do is complain about how this isn’t like this or that or who gives a fuck. Why does it always seem like the hardest thing is to let go even if you wanted it to go all along? Why move to a place only to change it to where you came from? Transplant city is confused. Segregated by not only directions but by the people themselves. Each with their own set of problems, concerns, and morality. Falling apart at the seams, it seems the stitching has come lose after so much wear and tear. Inspiration is lost on me as of late. With so much mediocrity shoved in my face day in and day out I’ve lost track of who I am. So lost in a sea of lost souls. Doesn’t matter anymore how I feel or what I have to say. As long as I shut up, do as I’m told, and get this fucking lady some soft corn tortillas.

So much of this is beyond my control. So much of this is beyond anything I could know. I can’t control how I feel. I like to think that I can or that I could, but how much can I really control? We don’t choose who we are born to or when we are born. Though they factor into our existence every day, but not by choice. The way we think is ingrained before we even have a chance to think about how we process information. Some say we are born this way. If that is the case then all of my outside influences don’t even matter. I would think this way and feel this way no matter who or what I have come across in my life time. A bunch of shit if you ask me. Born this way? Genetic hatred for everyday life? I don’t see it even if I feel it. A slow progression built up over time. The distance I’ve traveled. The assholes I’ve met in between made me who I am. Each and every knife dug in and drug out of me has molded me and shaped me into what I’ve become.

Yet I like myself. The perfectly cut scars, the misshapen features of a monster, and the overall decomposition of my soul. What’s not to like? It’s the people around me that I hate. With their Caesar like actions waiting to cut out what is left of me. But if I wasn’t in the shadows where is it that they lie? In the light or in the darkness with me? Do I ever really shed them off or are their knives and their influence truly part of me? I think about this as I pick the scabs. The never healing wounds of my past. If I hadn’t been beaten as a child would I be who I am? If my father had stayed by my side would it have made a difference? These questions have no answers. These questions therefore are not real questions at all. They are only lingering thoughts that haunt me in times of sadness and despair. Try to not focus on them, to dwell on them, but I always know they are still there.

My daughter has become a constant reminder of these topics. I look at her sometimes as she sleeps, as she plays, and all I can think is how could anyone walk away from her? Walk away from their child? Hurt their child or another person’s child? Yet I am proof that it can happen. Not only a witness but a victim and still I don’t understand. A real thought turns into so many real questions. Maybe it was meant to be this way. To feel this way. Maybe I just so happen to be a better person because of the knives. Again no real way of ever knowing. Eighteen years from now my daughter could be a drug addict, a murderer, or worst of all conservative because I stayed. Life proposes too many what if’s for one day of reflection.

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