Manifesto, Part 1

My name is Kat, and I am a creature of the night. I search for what is good when I’m blinded. What was once beautiful is now bleak. I don’t know why. Well, I do know, but I can’t pin down the reason and wipe it away like a smashed fly on a windshield. Words are my savior, the only proper window to my private world. I let other people in, at times; but I prefer silent strangers. I have many suitors, but I prefer dreams. I cry for help, but I prefer not to accept it. I desire eloquent proposals, but each one that I receive seems full of shit. I don’t like checking my e-mail, and yet it is obligatory. It still tastes of her and that cold heart whose existence I want to deny. The daytime makes me sick, but CSI comforts me through it. I read and wish that I was the one being read. Consider this the manifesto of the one who knows too much, and can’t find enough pages to shovel it out to powerlessness. In my head, I hear voices. Sometimes they are of the dead, pleading for a vehicle or an acknowledgment of their existence. I do my best to answer their requests. Sometimes I’m so caught up in answering that I forget to pose a question. My mouth runs far too long for the regulation ear. I have so much to say, but people want it in pieces. I was never one for censorship, the careful carving of thoughts and actions to meet the comfort levels of other humans. I find reality distasteful; I create my own. I’m much more at ease living in the abstract than indulging in the material. That can inhibit me at times (see roommate conflict #49348). I think cleaning is a waste of time. I get upset with myself if I am not constantly learning, completing, growing. Hobbies become stale to me quickly with the exception of writing. Otherwise rest is a hassle, so it becomes more work than work itself. Somehow, though, I can blank out watching television only if I expect to complete work when I’m finished. I don’t understand violence. Apparently, my roommate does. Apparently, rapists do. I’ve thought about hitting someone, but thoughts have not come close to action. Those voices I hear…they show me the product of violence. They used to follow me everywhere, but now they appear in blips. They show me the dead, either after the fact or in the middle of it. I’ve seen a nun hanging from a noose, a mangled woman on the train tracks. Usually, though, it’s my own body I see. I tend to believe these images are real, but if that were true than I will have died in about 150 ways. I don’t drink anymore, but sometimes I think about it. I think about reaching oblivion, but I rarely ever found that even when I did hit the bottle. I’ve been in a fit of depression for some reason. I was really happy for a while. I’m afraid that stating that I am depressed will only extend it. It always ends, though, and that is something I can’t afford to forget. I’m not going to take more medication. I reveal myself rather quickly. Like I said, I’m not very good at packaging bits of my life in to bite-sized pieces, nor do I really care to do so. Sometimes I feel overexposed, but the feeling is worth it knowing that I am not kidding anyone. I like novels, but I write poems. I don’t have the patience to construct a story; then again, I don’t have the patience to write a poem, either. Rather, I am merely a scribe for the language that mingles and makes love in my mind. That’s what I’m doing right now, in fact. This is only a beginning…