I the author of my own demise, I the creator and poet of my own future, and I the novelist of my own dreams am left in cinders and ashes, the day is getting darker, I’m writing far less than before and the love slipped away too fast. Labor Day came and went in the blink of an eye, I guess better or worse days were yet to come and show their faces. How miserable do you have to be before you really hit rock bottom? I don’t know anymore, smoking, drinking, and trying to dig into where I went wrong. Maybe I never went wrong like anyone else would believe, maybe I made a new path in the confusion and maybe I needed it all the most. I dropped out of community college and its official, the American Dream is no longer in my corner, and my founding fathers would be pissed. Poetry and writing in general flows through my ink driven veins, yet Capitalism doesn’t agree with a rising artist on his own. I always imagined the soul depriving, starved artist in my mind and what a sight turning torment into driven works of art, Van Gogh and Wolfe feeling the words vividly as if you too could follow them into the torment, if you could only see into the minds for the pain that was there, maybe then they would have been understood, maybe love could of mended the torment.
Fall is already near and I can feel it in my bones, my nerves ache and my skin adjusts, taking in the first breath of cold morning air. My regrets hang on the end of a cigarette and the portly end of a bottle of Vodka. I can feel the smoke and the alcohol soak and saturate my veins and even my soul swims in an ocean big enough to drown out the distant screams inside, alcohol and smoke. Such destruction and the pain only thickens, a tumor of mind and body, forged out of some personal desire of vendetta like spite. The body, the mind, the soul, all hinders on the likelihood of a privileged mad man too angry at himself and at the world to completely realize or reason with it. What a sham, not even twenty years of age and already everything falls apart under dysfunction and personal hardship, makes me want to suffer and then have the world suffer a little more, unheard and let loose the worst of us all, we’d all fall apart too. Our families and our jobs, the noise like distant crazy driven memories that create this amazing glow somewhere in life. The hope, the decency, the forgotten integrity that most don’t see until it is brought forward all at once, sometimes at times that are often too late and then they are ultimately pieced back together and what a mess. That awkward mess that is my life, just as it’s yours and your neighbors, only the depth by which some lives dip runs on and on for centuries yet to come.
I only know what comes day by day and it falls drop by drop until nothing else comes, whether that is death or a new beginning, I can only hope it is a peaceful portrait where the torment ceases. I am here to repeat what I have already done, I have already breathed, I have already eaten, drank water and alcohol, consumed the time and the air, yet there is nothing that came, a frightened sense of lost inabilities and for what? It’s cold and I’m already fading into the walls like I was supposed to in the end of some book, though here is just another place that can’t be controlled and people that influenced, deprived, and made something that might turn the world itself. To be gone, to be forgotten, now that scares just about everyone, our lives are with great meanings because they have to make something more, it’s convincing others of our greatness, letting them look at what we were and letting them aspire to us and then beyond. I am a writer, I am poet, I am a novelist, not the first, not the last, I guarantee, and you will never see anyone who compares exactly to what I have done though. I am not Walt Whitman or James Joyce, or even E. E. Cummings, I am Devin Pavlischak and the world won’t forget that, I will not let all the stories, the poems, and quotes that came from my pain, my torment, and my suffering slip away through the cracks in time. The first sacrifice is always a necessary one.