I have a large guilt. If you put your fingers out and cock them like a gun at me you can hear all of that rubber in my head going off. Yes I grow events to laws and laws to anxiousness and let that anxiousness fester into something else. Guilt is the end product. When it all feels too easy to me I wonder where I went wrong and how it is going to bite me in the end. If it all goes hard and maybe I don’t make it all the way that’s when I realize I had no business going after it in the first place, no business trying to make something out of this ruined corpse I pilot.
When I have told these anxieties some have pointed me in the way of the bible or told me to loosen up and take drugs. Some have said I don’t get angry enough or that my anger is of the wrong character: multi-directional, unchanelled, general–the word I’m looking for is “blast”: mushrooming outwards, and I’m always in the centre of that radius and bound to heap some upon myself regardless of who or what I’m angry at. Whereas my anger should be a red beam narrowly focussed, fired at someone who really deserves it. My parents have said that as soon as I build something up I need to tear it down again, like that plant I had growing well, that tipped over due to my carelessness, or the dog’s I guess; or the job I quit; or the dropping-out, or the drugs, or the bible; or the meetings I never went to; or the ceremony I never officiated; or the dog I never walked, or the apologies I always promised them but never made, or the moonlit night I couldn’t sleep and went out of bed and wandered around outside for a while in the darkness which caused the dog to explode up in the night because he didn’t recognize I was gone till I was keying my way in and I how I woke up everyone and made them grab each other out of fear and crawl their way into the foyer brandishing just to see me slipping out of my shoes and trying to keep the dog down and hushing him.