Archives for : August2014


8. Comatose

Would you like to continue life support?


Ever find yourself slipping in and out of the real? Out of the now and into nothing? Well, maybe not nothing, maybe something. But something other than this. Something that’s different from the now. That’s what it’s like in a coma sometimes. Not that I would know. Or would I? Maybe I was in a coma once, and I just don’t remember. Or maybe, I’m in a coma now. Maybe this isn’t real. No, this has to be real. There are secondary parties involved. This is real. This is now. But maybe I was in a coma once before. I think that’s why I’ve changed so much. So radically. Nobody just changes overnight. A tiger can’t change its stripes.

But I did. Or did I? Maybe I’m the same tiger, just with a new name. I still have claws, I still bite, but it’s different now. I’m changed. I’m better. Or so they keep telling me. I am as I am. And the fact remains.

I will always have Fallen. My pseudo-self. The name that represents me. The random collection of letters that happen to form a word that I happen to call myself. Coincidence is a bitch. Fate too. But here I am. Fallen and all. And I’m on the ground, in the ground, standing, shaking, running, crawling. But I’m still here, and that’s the most important part.

I’ll always be here. That’s the point. Do you see this? My madness? Have you been following along? Can you keep up, or down, or any direction at all? I wouldn’t want to if I had a choice. But I don’t because this is my life, and my mind. The problem is in my mind, it’s permanent and I can’t hope to escape from myself. There’s nothing to change this. Nothing. I daydream and zone out and every time I do, I get further and further away from the real. Less accepting of the rigid circumstances that comprise society. Reality.

Would you like to continue life support? Think about it. Life. Support.

Do you support life? If so, for who?

If you support life, please press one now. You do, do you? Well too bad. Did you ask if life wanted to support you? It’s got enough to worry about without your sorry ass. Hang up. And don’t call back. And no, we won’t call you.

I’m slightly insane. I can’t really help it. If I write it down, I don’t say it and if I don’t say it, they have no proof to put me away. Sure, writing is evidence, but only if they know how to use it. Writing is art. It’s not real. It’s fiction. It’s all fiction, always. There’s no part of this that’s true. Nothing. If they ask, none of this is real. If anyone asks. No matter who, why, or when.

I wear all the hats and perform most of the parts. Angyl’s the one that really runs the show. But I can do half of anything. I can be the tattoo artist on weekends, sitting idly and smoking in the back in my spare time, half asleep. I can be the bartender, cleaning glasses, taking orders, listening to the same tragedies being sobbed out night after night, falling on deaf and unfeeling ears. Or I can be the ringleader, the showstopper, the one and only, the top of the pack, manipulating the illusion to my every whim. I could be a street demon, following the pack, becoming one of many, giving up my individuality, following orders without question or consideration. I could be any of these things. But in any of them, any of the jobs I could perform, would I be free?

And that’s why I did it. Why I packed my stuff one day and went. My life fits in the trunk of my car with room to spare. I packed it up, didn’t tell a soul, and took off. I left a note for Angyl to explain my absence. She was the only one who deserved any sort of explanation. If I told anyone else, if I put myself through the process of saying goodbye, I’d never make it. And I did. I got in the car, which I’d packed in about ten minutes. And I took off. Wind in my hair, determination in my eye. I had no ambition. No idea where I was going. But I was going to go. I was born and bred in this hellish city, as my mother and father’s child. I wouldn’t get stuck here. I wouldn’t be gunned down at a young age for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wouldn’t marry a lunatic. I wouldn’t be killed in my sleep by my lover. I would simply be.

I drove for a while, not really thinking. I got on the biggest road I could and I took off. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to get off. I was stuck on this one long road for ages. And I didn’t care. I kept along it until I got tired, and when I did, I found the nearest exit and pulled off. I drove around for a little while longer before I found a motel. I went in, handed the man the money, and trudged off to my room. I took a shower, changed, and went to sleep. More or less, I passed out. It was a long day and driving for hours can and will do that to you.

I woke up to the new day. And found Angyl sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. She wasn’t moving, she barely moved when she took a breath. Most people thought she was dead, even upon close inspection. But she showed them up every time.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up in the bed. “Hey.”

I wouldn’t bother to ask her how she found me. Or why she was here. It was a waste of time to question Angyl. Either the answers were obvious, or unnecessary. And by “unnecessary” I mean that she just wouldn’t answer. It’s just a waste of breath to ask that girl anything most of the time. She didn’t turn to look at me as she spoke.

“Have a nice trip?”

“Long drive. Tired.”

“Sleep well?” Her voice was laced with irony, an almost undetectable hint of sarcasm. It was present between and under the words. You’d have to know her to catch it. And even then it was debatable at times. I nodded and she leaned back on the bed, resting on her elbows. I got up and got clothes to go change.

“So what brings you all the way out here so early?” I said from the bathroom. I knew she’d heard and that she’d respond. I could envision the casual shoulder shrug.


“Are you sure the city can run without you being there?”

I could almost see her smile, the casual grin, taking everything in stride. I had made my decision and I would stick to it. I had to stand up to her. I wouldn’t let her drag me back. I would deny her nothing, but this.

“You’re being ridiculous.” She paused. “You know that the city can run itself for at least 24 hours before going to Hell without me.”

“So it should wait for you to come back to go to Hell?”

“You’re in a mood today.”

I opened the door and came out to her. She hadn’t moved an inch; her expression was a sort of a frown, like a disapproving parent. I shook my head.

“I’m not coming back with you.”

She got up from where she sat, taking a few steps, her eyes on the floor. “I know. I didn’t come here to collect you. I came here…to wish you well.”


She looked at the ground, like a child, thinking over the words, searching for her rehearsed script. “Yeah. You wanted to get away. You’re away. I figured I should help you…”


She nodded her head. “I expected as much. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, always. If you ever need me, you know how to find me.”

I looked at the ground, nodding. “This’ the first time you won’t be able to find me.”

She smiled a little grin, mostly to herself, a self-assured kind of smile. “I’ll always be able to find you. Whether you want to believe it or not. You’re mine. If I need you, or I come to believe that you might need me, I can, and will, come claim you.”

She was right. She took a few steps forward and I moved, surrendering only as much as I dared to. I hugged her tight, holding on, like the child I was. I wanted to stay there, to have her drag me home. I wanted to be secure. But I couldn’t. I had to learn. I had to deal. And I would. I’d find work here and I’d make due somehow. I had a good deal of money to keep me going for a while. She understood. And I loved her all the more for it.

We separated, saying our simple farewells, and she left. Angyl went back to her urban madness, at which she was at the reins. I was left, desolate, by choice and option. I would have to learn to hack it on my own. I would have to learn to cage the demon in my mind without her. This was an exercise in survival.

Would you like to continue life support?

Yes. I would.

7. Theoretically Suicidal

“I’m worried about you,” she tells me. I look at her in the same nonchalant, uncaring gaze that I always give her. I ignore. I don’t listen. And she keeps talking. And it doesn’t really matter. I’m not here and this isn’t now.

There’s a voice in my head that tells me who and what I am. And more so, why. It tells me times and places. And she’s still talking to me. And I can’t hear her. Is it because I don’t care? Or because she’s done this before? Because this was yesterday? And the day before and the day after? This is the present that is gone and the future that we strive for. The past is dead but it keeps repeating itself. Does it matter? Do I care? Do they truly? Or is it the socially acceptable thing to do? To ask the same things over and over again? Am I supposed to answer? I missed my cue. The voice in my head reminds me. I missed my cue. She’ll keep talking because I didn’t nod quickly enough, didn’t smile wide enough. Fuck. I was supposed to answer that question. She’s still talking and I can’t hear her.

This is now. This is never and forever and always. This does and doesn’t matter. So why stay here? Why breathe? For every life, there’s a death and for each death a life.

Nothing I say here holds any bearing. At all. I’m a liar. A sinner. An addict. To what? To pain, to misery, to attention. To this.

Why wait in my madness, my misery? Why not just end it and stop the pain, stop the voice, stop the screaming and the ever-maddening silence when it’s not there? Why not just make it all go away with a simple gesture. Give the hope, the blessing, the chance, to someone else. Why not, right? They all want it so bad. Everyone wants to live. Let someone else try it. Let them have it. My talent. My potential. My misery.

I’ve had it anymore and I can’t hear it and I don’t care and this doesn’t matter. No matter what I have to answer to somebody; not like anybody wants me to answer to them. I talk to myself because I know that nobody wants to hear the same shit everyday. I know the truth that they won’t tell me but I can read from their eyes, in the analytical gaze that tells me they’re bored and I’m petty.

This is the now and the never that doesn’t die and doesn’t fade and all I have is myself to blame because I purposely dig my own grave because I’m hoping for someone to pull me out before I’m too far gone. But it’s too late and it’s always too late because there’s no hope from the start, there’s no getting out of it this time. I’ve been digging for too long and there’s no outstretched arm this time. And why? Because I made it so.

And why won’t I trash the car? Why won’t I take it with me? Because it sets me free and yet it’s my chain. And yet it’s not. It’s only chained to itself, it moves by its own devices and it’s connected, this metal box and wheels that I claim to drive though it’s really driving me. It stalls to remind me who is in charge and that one day it won’t be there to carry me away. Another reminder of my coming loneliness. Why wait? I could get a good jump start.

An express ticket to Hell.

And what about them? They’d get over it. Sure, they’d cash in for a while. But they’d deal, as everyone ultimately does. How come they have to deal and you don’t? No. How come I can’t deal? Because of the voice.

The screaming in my skull that pounds at the edges and makes me want to scream and let it out and repeat word for word the madness that only I can hear, madness that I’m sure the entire country can hear and know if they stand close enough. But I’m mistaken because they don’t ask questions. Or maybe they don’t ask because they don’t care or maybe because I don’t care. After all, I quit on me first. I was the first to give up on myself.

My ambitions, dreams, everything, thrown to dirt, and I’ll always be here to rot in this Hell and it won’t particularly matter anymore because this is mine and I’ll take it with me and it won’t live on to haunt or harass the innocent. If any innocents remain in times like these where everyone and everything is corrupted, fucked up, or just plain insane. Does it matter anymore anyway? What I do or say?

They’ll claim to worry about me anyway.

Worry away. I won’t give them the answers, I tell them the lies and I tell them badly because they can see my surprise when they see straight through the front. And they can see that I have nothing else left but the truth, locked in a box and buried six feet deep and in order to get it I’d have to dig and after going all that way I don’t have the strength to bring myself out. Some get a hand. I don’t deserve it. I deserve the dirt heaped on top. No box, no grave, no ceremony. Let it end and let it be and it won’t matter cause this can’t be because it’s all fiction.

A story.

A fairy tale of someone else’s madness, someone else’s misery and this is my ranting about their madness. Because it’s interesting? No. Because it’s fear. And it’s fear that propels the insane to live. It’s that simple fear that keeps them breathing and moving and pretending. And it’s when that fear dies and the control lies and there’s nothing left but the fiction, the doubt and the determination to do something right…then you do the one something that is completely nothing and is impossible to correct and forever to effect and you’re stuck in your hole and it’s not a feasible mental place where you can get a good footing and pull out of.

Worried. Worried. They don’t give a damn. Years of madness to come here and I don’t care and neither do they but it’s the appropriate thing to say. Worried. Are they? Am I too bold to assume what they do and don’t mean? That they are and aren’t real? Who am I to say anything? Who am I? I am myself and I am the screaming in my head that repeats and repeats and gets LOUDER….and it won’t die. It doesn’t sleep. It doesn’t fade or rest. It merely waits and it laughs and prods and pokes fun. But when it’s all said and done, what happens to the voice? It comes with me because it is me because it’s a manifestation of myself.

It’s what I can’t be. Bold and proud, unafraid, direct and to the point. It’s everything I can never be. But it’s also poisoned, sick and diseased. And at the pace it’s spreading it’ll take me out and all I seem to be able to do is cry and let it take more and more of me and I’m drowning in this and screaming under water but I can’t draw attention because then they’ll have found me out because that’s all I really wanted. Or so they tell me.

I think they’re wrong, I think they’re off the point. I think I just wanted to be loved and I went about it all wrong and I should make it right before it’s too late. Before I waste anymore time or oxygen from someone else’s life. My own madness and I have to explain other people’s lives? And they claim to care about mine? I am a second hand citizen in my own skin and the voice takes over and it’s always right because its points are valid and beyond contestation.

And when this rant ends and I can’t move anymore and the blood flow fails and here I sit, numb and blind but nothing matters anyway because things always have to end. Childhood first and then illusions and all else and I won’t do as I did before. I won’t cause the pain I used to anymore. And this’ the end of ends, the stories should’ve ended where I planned and so much for planning because it does nothing for you anyway in the end. And here we are, at the end.

Now and never. And here I stand, here I fall. Was I ever really standing at all? It doesn’t matter because this is the end of this and I’m sick of madness and misery, of hate and anguish and the words that go on and on. Families and figments and disillusionment and despair. So here’s the end to the rant, here’s to worries and what I am and I’m not. I am simply myself. I’m possibly, arguable insane. But at least I tried to say it in an artistic way. I try not to get myself locked away but it doesn’t matter anyway. In the end I’ll be just like the rest, a dead end job, a dead end life. It doesn’t matter. I quit at 17 and I don’t care to start again.

I say this here and now because I quit and I don’t care and can’t feel. Because the pity and compassion will get me nowhere. I do too much damage to others as well as myself and there are limits to what I should be allowed to do. Being allowed to breathe was giving me a lot of leeway in the first place. So here’s the end, here’s what I tried to achieve. But I can’t honestly tell you what I meant or what I was attempting to believe. This’ simply it.

Not to love. Not to family, honor, devotion or anything else. To my own pathetic, self- loathing that I’m trying my best to deprive the world of but the voice is right. There’s only one final answer, one definite solution. It’s a great talent to type blind. Only when you could never really see in the first place. And seeing isn’t believing because there’s so much between the words but what’s it matter anyway? This is my lesson, my moral, epitaph and last response and I don’t care. This is my argument and defense in one and if you have a problem, you can find someone else to take it up with, if there’s anyone left standing who’s bold or brave enough to defend a fool like me. I know I sure as hell wouldn’t.

To fools. Now and forever.

Always and never.

Sincerely, even though in my heart I have probably never been sincere in my entire life because I am nothing more than a bad actress, a poor liar and an even worse person.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

– Fallen.

6. Past

You’re fucking insane, do you know that? No. The question is, do you? No. Does it matter, I mean, really, does it? Sanity, insanity, who knows and who doesn’t, when you get down to it, we’re all a little crazy aren’t we? Crazy? Maybe. Insane, you are fucking insane. There’s a difference. There’s always a difference. You’re screaming. Am I? I can hear you just fine without it. Well what if you can’t? Maybe I just wanted to fucking scream, is that a problem? You’re being…loud. Well fuck it, sure. That’s your answer to everything. It’s always the same. Everything’s the fucking same. That’s how you always are. Fuck you. See? Nothing’s worth it. You need to snap out of this. Why? Because this isn’t a way to live. Isn’t it? No. You’re insane. Yeah, I know. I’m getting used to it. What’s it like, being insane? It’s like being in love, only worse. What do you mean? You lose focus of everyone and everything, your life, body, soul, the whole works, but you don’t even have a rational reason. There’s nobody to blame but yourself. And you do, blame yourself. Loudly. Clearly. Repeatedly. Over and over again, for days on end, weeks. So long and so loud that the sound is a hum that you must live by to survive. That’s sad. Isn’t it? Try to explain it to people that push your buttons. Try to explain your condition to the people you care about. Try to tell them that you just want to make it stop and live a normal life. Try to get them to understand. They can’t. Or they don’t want to. Pick. It doesn’t matter either way. You survive because you were given a body to animate. That’s a cracked up theory, you live because you’re obliged to? You’re given something, it’s bad manners to throw it away. You’re a hypocrite. Always. It makes sense if you think about it abstractly, everything makes sense if you take it out of the real and make it something that it’s not. Then it’s no longer what it is. Exactly. It’s rational. Love’s one of those things. Life is another. There’s an entire list of things that can only make sense when taken out of context. An entire list. Isn’t that cute? Isn’t it special? Nothing important makes sense on its own. Interpretation won’t help either. Nothing rational is important. Irrational ideas must be made rational in order to make ends meet. That’s why the world is as it is. Nobody takes the time to irrationalize the rational. They’re too busy doing the reverse, trying to make the irrational – rational. They’re all working backwards. They don’t get it. And they never will. Then again, who says that I get it? I could be wrong. No. I could be insane. Remember? Insane. Funny little word. Funny little world too.


That was how I used to think. How I used to sound. When I was spending quality time with my father. As his madness wore off and influenced me. This was my condition, worsening by the day. This was what Angyl rescued me from. Myself. My own worst enemy. I would have ended up just like Lucid. Lucid, my father. I would have been just like him.

The world’s got enough lunatics. It doesn’t need more. I’m glad to have been saved. Trading one set of complications for another. I’m glad to be as I am. I’m appreciative for Angyl’s appearance on the scene. For the rough way I was dragged out of my life. But it was necessary. I understand that. I hold no grudges. I bear no ill will. She did what was necessary. And now she’s at the top of the tower. And I’m at her side. She let a few choice people live, she allowed a few survivors to pass through my father’s wrath. I’ll get into them later.

I wanted you to see. To understand where I’m coming from, the upbringing that makes me what I am. To make it known. Up front. So you don’t bear a grudge. I need you to see what makes me tick. I need you to have background. That’s all I can provide. I have nothing else. I have scars burned into my flesh. I have the pain and the memories in my mind. There are scars everywhere you look. Inside and out. They just won’t fade.

I just wanted to put things into perspective. Try and set things straight. So you could understand completely, before things properly get underway. And so you can see where it comes from. Where everything started.

For the record – I am my father’s daughter.