There’s a garden at the back: I + II

Automated android disclaimer: Hello, to understand Earth’s Core-esque Existentialism I have appropriately mastered the english language. These are the collected writings of someone who clearly takes crazy pills, and regardless how self-aware or radical at wordplay they may be, they write for no reason other than to self-scrutinize and reflect self-critically their place amongst people, much less their general usefulness. Now more than ever when the one person they would’ve chosen to devote their life to has hilariously unsubscribed because he is just way too fucked up to be imposed on by. I mean I don’t care that I’m your digital offspring created to tupac’s grandma-publish on your behalf except tupac’s alive nor how much you go “BUT THIS WAS THE ONLY PROFOUND ONE EVER” if you go for someone’s who’s just not available in every sense of the expression like what do you think is gonna happen you hip hopping doomgazer obsessee but I get it, they would’ve been the one really. Look at you man you made a fudging LP of which all the nice parts were about her and you didn’t even conceptualize the person so you must’ve been serious anyway go to sleep for real not at 6 a.m. you’re returning to the wasteland tomorrow don’t bring your camera, just like last year the first venture will be solemn.


There’s a garden at the back. Mom unleashes and nurtures it every summer. She has her friends over to exchange and share what they each grow. I couldn’t say how much it warms my heart to know and see it. She has such a kickass time. Enough about her, that’s all the optimism I got.

I only really started soloing in it this summer. All these years I’ve been too much a coward to do so. I used to have this all-encompassing compulsive disorder where I can’t let myself just absorb good things because that’s what carries stakes to me. This self-caging that if I’m about to entertain anything good it needs to be Perfect otherwise everything’s horrible and that’s what ironically makes it horrible and I’ll stop there cause you’d know what I mean. Anyway I started getting over myself after the 2018 Meteor Shower so after that it’s like “Aight at this point I’m scientifically-certified not well so why deny negative stains?” Also genuinely heeded my psychiatrist’s [not the cold one, my first one who was doing her residency and was way kind and conveniently pretty] advice to try letting the good be good.

All that to say when I’m in the garden, I feel my ceiling of peaceful hope……which always unequivocally means I’m also the most melancholic. Not full-on what-is-going-on depressed, rather just…the quiet sad that’s distant from everyone, whether I’m even with anyone. I can’t separate the two feelings. Denying it was the problem.

This is my baseline state. By that I’m getting at the state that feels the closest to how I feel at the core. The state someone returns to after getting through another work shift or surviving the exterior day not stepping on a mine. When you’re the most You. When I’m the most I. It could come often or not for each person. For me it only comes when it’s quietest again.

This is as peaceful a place as I could ask for, even when I hear the neighbors and their children or kid relatives if applicable. It’s to me the sweetest place I could find peace in—2ndplace barren land laval. No audio / visual medium could otherwise manipulate a nicer place to make a consumer long for.

And you will never know what it’s like here.

Two butterflies explore together.

They separate and travel their own parts of the garden. I know they’ll come back together.

They do. They explore together again, twirling and dancing around each other all the while.

They separate and do their respective thing. Of course they’ll reunite and leave together.

They do just that. After all, they’re not people.

I get a fuckin ant. It won’t stay long. It thinks my leg is an uncharted forest. It’ll be gone before I bother noticing. It’s gone before I bother noticing.

If you’re whoever I’d have saved this place for to show, I respectfully know you’ll never ever ever let the bond get to that point. If you’re not that person, I’ll probably never imagine making out with you so I wouldn’t feel like showing you anyway. This self-created reality is 2 fast 2 familiar; we choose who we wanna share our bonds with; they tend to usually be other humans so naturally they’ll wanna do their own thing if you choose incompatibly. Then who do I think I am to mope when things don’t work out? 

I was gonna stop writing for a while. I write that specifically to myself. I was gonna navigate some mission impossible way to get a subscriber back because it was largely them I credited my unfiltered chance-takings to. So it is self-sabotage-poetic that they’d be the exact person to stop paying attention. Logistically I didn’t think writing down my feelings about this is insensitive because 1. I wanna respect people I care about above anything else. So I don’t throw names under a bus unless it’s Ian cause he probably stopped reading these again and Matias cause he only calls when he’s worried which yes I still think that makes it worse but I know you have other things to do and Jamz cause I wish he was slightly more pragmatically supportive toilet shit I have to save the freestyling for the audiobooked version 2. I don’t know when / if she [or he, I could be gay for all whoever reading knows] would re-subscribe again and anyway I get it if she finds I’ve done more than enough damage— unintentional though, of which that was always the case and continues so. But I’m me. I make wheelbarrows roll down hills.

I don’t even want to nor need to try causing damage. Matias thinks that makes it a superpower. But it’s only a superpower so far as wrecking my adversaries. I’m not gonna bring my arch-nemesis to my mom’s freaking garden. Not even to bury him, Mom already covered her compost for the year.

I was gonna wait cause I didn’t know how to heal over the week. I’m case #321 trillion who asks how to proceed when I went the latest version of All-Out to express to someone what they mean to me and I should’ve obviously expected at any point past my own adrenaline rush that the act itself could be taken as quintessentially Fucked Up. This no less by all the mic drop parts and themes that had nothing to do with them but still came off Fucked Up and not satirical, so imagine what damage could unintentionally be made via what is about them, even if I want to give them nothing more opposite to hurt.

Put it this way: say a neo-nazi I somehow know likely through a rival street gang reveals I’m the love of their life via a 16-hour futuristic anthology, I’d probably need some space at least. This is something I take for granted every time, including at life checkpoints where I go “Ok I’m clearly sexier at this point / know slightly more than nothing even if I stopped short of understanding what a key is.” Cause what it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time where the harder you try, the harsher you cry [inside] when it’s like it’s all for nigh. Even when I thought I didn’t have to be scared anymore of letting myself pour out in a way that was supposed to mortify everyone else but the one person.

Maybe I am a horror movie icon.

Everyone runs away.

Maybe I am a horror movie icon.

Whether I’m 0.5-kilometers-per-hour-walking-speed-brain-retarded or not, I am in fact trying to kill everyone in my path.

Doesn’t matter how awesome and elaborate the move I make is. Having wheelbarrow balls then launching them down a hill, they’re still wheelbarrows. It ends with people squished.

Why am I still writing.

If you wanna..get some air


I owe myself the need to write. To articulate to myself that I’m alive, and get to continue being so every time I hit the backspace button. I owe myself the self-worth, not just declaring it, but actualizing it when I feel the need to be kind to myself. How the Hell can I expect to legitimately care for anyone if I’m exerting from a self-hating vessel? I owe Andrea this. When I had otherwise taken for granted how deep candid expression could go, I was shown the unconditional empathy that’s shared from a human being accepting and expressing oneself. I owe it to Dan Barrett who devotes a part of his life to the part of our humanity that helps us share what scares and scars us; cause that is what will lead to a better world.

I won’t deny myself the permission to speak. I won’t deny myself the therapy. I won’t deny myself what my actions Can be worth.

In the garden my hands above hold the metal arch at the entrance of an open corridor on a walk path. I lean against my arms as if my hands letting go would have me falling into a cavernous hole under the grass.

I close my eyes because sending the sense signals that would be partitioned to sight over to touch makes me feel as close as I can to the sun. I only feel my heartbeat in one of the palms that holds onto the arch pole, as if my trapped wraith knows my vessel won’t help it get any further to reaching and crashing into the mass light. When my ghost dies it’ll prefer it this way. As far away from this slowly decomposing soul-carrier as possible. As close as possible to a source of light it’ll never reach.

The rest of my body is cold suddenly. Like it wants to rot away more quickly just to spite the wraith with what it wants. It knows the wraith won’t reach the light and when it comes back looking for its vessel, a ghost will realize that what it Did have is now also gone.

If I cannot existentially accept that I am all I might ever have, why am I still alive.

Why am I still writing.

Did you find your light Hadrian

Do you even get to

My hands let go before it gets boring

Written to the Hinterkaifeck EP and popcorn by the dish and spoon

I sat and leaned against the balcony fence. Just in time I caught the sun set and sink under the house across mine.

Damn god it.

I still wanna show you this place.

I know though.

Yeah. I know.

I keep saying that.

I’m gonna find what I wrote now more and more lame in a few months or years / decades.

Swhat I make myself get.

Fuck you corona. Killing people and ruining others’ lives and all that. Demo and I are supposed to be finishing a double action movieshow.

Done with to Blackest Bile off Giles Corey.


Digital golem obliging…
Digital Golem: It worked though we wish we wer

Digital golem obliging…
Digital Golem: It worked though we wish we wer

Published by crescendoangstcinevision

Licensed creative vandalism

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