Chemicals,
so many chemicals.
Prescribed by
well-known
Doctors.
Of the mind.
Of the brain.
Yesterday,
I felt what it
meant to
merely let go,
of two of them
chemicals.
It almost made
me go completely
MAD, it almost
made me terminate
one of my most
valuable friendship,
it made me go
nuts, though.
In my way home.
Fortunately,
away from
my workspace,
where, I've been
told - SEVERELY
That if it ever,
ever,
occurs again,
I'm out of a job.
And that, I cannot
be without.
I'm glad, that
I've got to keep
my good friend,
which has been
keeping up
with this MADMAN
for quite so long,
I'm really glad
that we came
to a "happy" end.
No end, that's
what I meant.
But, I'm here,
keeping myself
- barely -
at bay,
because of
another prescribed
medicine,
that helped
me through
the nightmare
I experienced
yet again
this morning.
I wept, and sobbed
My psychologist
helped me
through the hell
I was experiencing.
Hell, I say.
I've no idea
that a mere
withdrawal
would made me
so STARK
RAVING
MAD.
I'm here.
I'm calm.
I'm keeping
it together,
for the
time being.
I've been mad
STARK
RAVING
MAD
last night,
where I
just collapsed
face down on
the fucking
floor...and
started weeping
like a madman,
like someone
who'd lost
his best friend.
None of it
was real.
None of it
was understandable,
not to someone
else's point of
view.
My mother,
tried to calm me,
but suddenly,
the talk made
me even madder,
made me fucking
RUDE to her,
and I hope,
I honestly hope,
that she can
forgive me.
The deranged son,
the fucking failure.
The regret, the burden
of my family.
Alas, I'm really
glad, that
- at least -
I've not lost
a friend,
whose tolerance
in enduring
the ravings
of this madman,
almost came to
an sudden END.
No such thing.
No endings.
But, I'm having
weird feelings
inside my head,
I'm having the
kinda feelings
that'd drove
anyone mad.
Maybe I am,
MAD already,
and I just don't
know.
Maybe I'd be
better off
restricted
to the nuthouse,
drugged on
Thorazine,
drooling,
feeling
nothing
at all.
But I'm here,
an impostor,
a dreadful
friend,
a dreadful
son,
a fucking
awful
person.
Forgive me,
my friends,
my mother,
my family,
my Boss,
anyone
who's ever
been in touch
with this rather
AWFUL
person.
Here I stand,
sitting on my chair,
posing as a
normal person,
whereas I'm
nothing
- nothing -
of the sort.
I'm fucked up.
In the brain.
In the head.
In the soul,
that is,
if I still
have one.
I beg for
forgiveness,
I beg for
understanding,
for I'm truly
an awful
human being,
who'd flipped
his own mother
in a fit of insanity,
in a fit of rage,
so much rage,
stored in me,
for all my life,
all these
thirty-seven
years of
trying
and
failing.
At everything.
Fucking.
Everything.
I'm mad, or
close to that,
because of ME,
because of what
I've chosed to be,
in all these years,
these decades,
that amounted
to nothing.
I beg, I repeat,
for forgiveness,
for understanding,
for a chance
to prove
I'm wrong,
I've been wrong
I've been what
I am,
nothing.
A fucking
FAILURE,
a fucking
DISAPPOINTMENT,
to almost
everybody,
but most of
all, to ME.
Fucking me.
Fuck me.
Fuck all I am,
all I've been,
all I've could
have been.
I've been
nothing.
I turned to
nonthing,
it's all
on me,
and I know it.
I've always
known it.
I've been
running away,
for thirty seven
fucking
years.
And yes, I'm
glad, I am,
that it didn't
come to an end,
but rather
a promise,
a faint promise,
of a new
beggining.
I've had no sleep.
I've had no peace,
in all these years,
I've been asking
myself, what
THE FUCK
have I become?
What THE HELL
am I supposed
to do?
I'm begging
for redemption,
for forgiveness,
for yet another
chance.
I'm betting
all that's left
on this so-called
"miracle"
All my chips
go to the Doctor,
who, is said,
operates miracles.
But I've got no soul,
not anymore,
I've got no hope,
or almost none left,
that it will
indeed
be
a
miracle.
Because I've
tried, I SWEAR,
I've tried,
almost everything
available to madmen,
such as me.
I've been given
this last chance.
This last strand
of tiny hope,
at least, to my
defectful point
of view.
At the moment,
I'm keeping it
together, thanks
to the emergency
medication
the last Doctor
gave me.
It worked,
at least to
contain my
weepness,
my feeling,
dreadful feeling
of having no
fucking hope
left in me.
But here I am,
encased in these
walls, gripping
my fucked up
mind, just not
to break loose
another dreadful
episode
of sheer
madness.
Forgive me.
All the ones
I've injured.
Forgive me,
because I'm lost,
so lost,
that I don't really
know, no more,
what is wrong
and what's right.
I've said dreadful
things,
done dreadful
deeds,
Insulted everyone
that cared for
me, by just
being ME.
This fucked up
THING.
This fucked up
MONSTER,
that I saw the
mere reflection
yesterday,
and tried to
break said mirror
with my bare fists.
To no avail.
The mirror persisted,
the image reflected,
persisted,
the MONSTER
continues to be.
Forgive me!
Forgive this
fucking BEAST,
this HUMAN WASTE,
that thirty seven
years made me be.
A fucking virgin,
a fucking faggot,
a runaway,
from life, and all
-they say -
the good, they say
there's in it.
I've only seen
the dark side,
no matter how
I tried,
no matter what
chemicals
I've put into
this zombified body,
this corpse,
that yet walks
and tries to remain
alive, somehow.
Forgive me!
I'm the worst,
I know now,
I'm becoming
a second version
of my "father",
of someone I've
so despised,
for all these
fucking
thirty
seven
years
of
nothingness.
The only thing
that made me feel
alive, was Gideon,
the persistence
of my friends,
(How can you lot
endure such a
apin in the ass,
remains a mistery,
at least to this
fucked up being)
My family,
who didn't
throw me
away,
like the
pile of rubbish
I've become,
my guitars,
that one friend
said, did not
understand
why THE FUCK
I have so many.
And here I answer,
each one has its
soul, each one has
its unique tone,
each one meant
to me, a piece of hope
a small piece of
hope.
And, like said
on one of my
favourite movies,
which I quote,
"I get by because of the people who make a special effort to shop here -
mostly young men - who spend all their time looking for deleted Smith
singles and original, not rereleased - underlined - Frank Zappa albums.
Fetish properties are not unlike porn. I'd feel guilty taking their
money, if I wasn't... well... kinda one of them." (High Fidelity, 2000)
Try to picture this
with guitars.
They're like that.
Fetish properties,
if you will.
To me, each and
everyone of them,
means a different
feeling, a different
sound, a different
tone, even different
tunings.
(and, to be honest,
I don't even have
HALF of the guitars
I'd wish I had. No SG,
No Telecaster, no
Jazzmaster, No hollow
body guitars.)
They each represents
a different...
hope. The faded
hope, that one day,
I'd be a musician,
not a fucking clerk,
an "improductive"
employee, to the boss,
to the firm, to the
Empire.
But that hope
is almost gone,
like all of my
previous dreams,
unless the so-called
"drug miracle"
work its magic.
But, for the moment,
all I know is pain,
the very pain
of merely existing
or rather, un-existing,
while I do my chores,
I answer calls,
forward emails,
type numbers,
so many numbers,
that means nothing
to me, but to the
Empire,
Numbers upon
numbers,
values, so
many values,
that means
nothing to me,
but a lot to the
Firm.
And, I'm here,
"push a button.
pull a lever,
you don't understand
what it means,
then you die."
But I do as told,
I try to make
myself useful,
in my oh-so
limited ways,
to such Empire.
Forgive me,
Boss.
Forgive me,
Mr Lawyer.
I know, deep
down I know -
you DO care for
me, otherwise
I'd already be
out of a job.
Forgive me
for calling it
"shitty",
it's the nature
of the deranged,
the ungrateful,
the fucked up
MONSTER
that stares
back at me
on the mirror.
Forgive me,
you all.
All the people
who'd even tried
to help
the helpless,
the one who
can't help
himself.
The fag, the queer,
the fucking virgin
who ran away,
from everything
and everyone.
Who let each
and everyone
of you,
my friends,
my boss,
my "lawyer",
down, oh so down.
A fucking
maggot, it's
what I've
become.
But I have
a fucking wild
imagination,
that always led me
to "better" places
that exists only
in my mind
because I'm so
fucking
GUTLESS,
that I won't risk
anything,
won't compromise
to anything
that might cause
me further pain.
Pain? What is pain?
Pain lies,
in the very eye
of the beholder.
In this case,
my pain
means nothing
to the most of
you.
Because you
are normal,
you are sane,
whereas I'm not.
I'm stuck,
lost,
in a fucking
sollitaire cell
I've build
for myself.
During
fucking
thirty
seven
years.
Dusty,
moldy,
secluded,
unreachable,
untouchable,
to the people
outside of it.
Inside,
I felt secure.
But I had no idea,
it'd kill me
as well.
It'd turn me
into this
thing.
This
fucking
Monster.
Loser,
witless,
gutless,
weak,
bleak.
Unable to
feel, unable
to love, unable
to take the reins
and make a difference.
So, here I grasp
at straws,
at my last hope
of change,
even though
it might kill
me, inadvertently,
if I eat something
I'm not supposed to.
This is me.
This is the one,
the lonely one,
the hateful one,
begging
for mercy.
For forgiveness.
Which, I'm not
entirely sure,
I deserve.
Dawn's ending,
a new day arrives,
full of promises,
but the pain,
it remains.
And before the
twilight,
I hope,
faintly hope,
that everyone
that has read
this heap of
words, to some
nonsense and all,
try to understand.
That I'm really
fucked up,
and for that,
I'm sorry.
I really am.
Forgive me,
for being
this thing,
this useless drag,
this fucking faggot,
that won't even
assume who he
really is, who he
really likes.
I'm fucked, that
is certain.
In the head.
In the brain.
The so-called
CNS, (SNC for
portuguese)
Central
Neural
System.
In the soul,
that I wish I had,
because I think
I've burned that
all away,
in so many
years of dope,
illegal dope,
Risperidone,
and helplessness.
Forgive me, oh
please forgive me,
For being this.
For behaving
like this.
I'm grabbing
at straws,
I'm clinging
for dear life,
even though,
I despise it,
at least the
way it is,
nowadays.
Forgive me,
all of you.
Forgive me.
I feel now,
the symptoms
of sudden
withdrawal
of certain
chemicals,
(legal ones)
I've been taking
for three or four
years, and thought,
naive as I am,
that it'd be like
a walk on the park.
It ain't. No, it isn't.
For today, and
yesterday,
I've almost lost it,
thankfully,
away from my post,
away from where
I've been warned,
I can't have the
"luxury"
of losing my mind,
or I'll lose my job,
that I wrongfully
called shitty,
(forgive me boss)
that I can't, I just
CAN'T
lose it.
Otherwise,
I'll kill myself.
Because that's
all I got left
to support me,
to support my
family,
my treatment,
my last hope.
I complain a
lot, I know.
I'm fucking faggot,
that is already known,
physically,
and mentally.
A fucking 37 year old
BOY.
Helpeless as such.
Hopeless as such.
Timid as such.
Fucking piece
of SHIT,
ungrateful asshole,
timid queer,
shy faggot.
No wonder's
he's a fucking
virgin.
No one gets inside
this frigid heart,
cold heart,
dried up heart.
Which longs for
love,
but in the end,
don't believe in it,
at all. "A rose with
thorns", poets say,
"A fucking WEEED
that's mostly thorns",
to me.
I believe in nothing.
I can't feel nothing.
Maybe, only regret,
of what I've been,
what I've said and done,
for fucking
thirty
seven
years.
Middle age,
they say.
Terminal age,
I say.
Because now,
it's all or nothing,
because now,
if the miracle
doesn't truly
works,
I'll end myself.
I'll need no gun,
no gallows,
no razors,
no poisons.
I'll only need
Tyramine
And that's not
an illegal thing.
That's really easy
to come by.
Alas, the day's halfway
done, and here I sit,
writing this thing,
to beg for forgiveness,
to all my readers,
to all my friends,
that once, or more than
once, tried to help
this corpse.
This delayed corpse.
This fucking faggot,
and its weird fetishes,
(best you don't know)
The fucking Monster's
still alive, breathing,
trying to keep it
together,
even though
his fucking mind
is a fucking mess,
call it withdrawal,
call it queerness,
all it lack of vitamin D,
call it the breakdown
of the dam, caused by
excessive consumption
of pot, and Risperidone.
Call it lack of cigarrettes.
Call it madness.
That's it.
Madness.
Or regret,
a life full of regret,
or lack of excercise,
call it whatever you like.
I only ask for forgiveness,
if possible,
to this thing I've become,
in thirty fucking seven
fucking years,
of inexistence.
Forgive me.
Dawn has ended,
let the twilight come.
