New World: Order (a prelude) [edit]

Back at the old dive bar from seven years prior. New phone I'm typing away on but the same old words appear. Maybe they'll make more sense this go round, but I'll be damned if I know what they mean.

I'm still alone, by choice I now know, orchestrated and designed by some mis-alignment of DNA or programming by my upbringing in a broken home. I see it all much more crystal clear, just how murky the depths of my parental interactions were. Or really, all my connections to humanity and every thought I've ever had.

I struggle every day with whether or not I'm damaged goods, whether I'm tainted by evil or just god damn born bad. I feel wrong. I've meet some others with bad wiring or just way off, somehow skewed from the norm perspective by an event too traumatic for interpretation. I look to the times spent in this basement bar, drinking and crying, fighting and lying. What was it all for? What had I learned?

You write a book, you better make sure you do either of two things: please yourself or please others. In my world there is no overlap, or very little anyways. Any collaborative effort that's led to a creative endeavor has gained me some semblance of understanding and acceptance, but my own work, the disembowelment of my singular self, sees nothing from the work put into it.

When I put this word before that word, linking them together in a steady flow, my world makes sense and all is right. I am channeling the divine within and it is beauty incarnate, the absolute truth and unwavering sublime communion with everything. But when you read it, when I read these words to you and they mean nothing, not to say they are nonsense, that much I know, but to say they make no impact on you other than a silent ingestion...

Why am I here? Jazz sits at home waiting for me, though I want to deny her my presence, somehow lingering in the present, wallowing in the past, writing with hope for the future, however, as always, I can do nothing but hate mankind. I catch snippets of conversation that makes me question how these people keep society chugging along, unless it's a beer chaser with a handful of meds.

I'm alone. By accident or design, this is truth. It is the constant. My external circumstances are nearly always in flux, but this distance between me and that girl at the bar nursing her vodka soda and stealing glances in my direction, that is beyond my own comprehension, even here at the tender age of post-Christ Complex thirty-four. Aren't I an adult who should have this worked out by now?

Or is it that I'm a writer, a shaman sitting so comfortably in the skin of everyone that I can not be within myself long enough to assimilate into the crowd, join the party, give up and buy in to consensus reality? Either way I imagine I'm fucked and now drunk and there's nothing I can do about that but buy another beer and dive in further.