I never wanted to write this blog. I am a secret writer and I never share my writings. It’s not because I’m insecure about my words but because I see no reason to reveal myself to
others. Sometimes I wake up at night and have the urge to delete the entire blog. Because I don’t want to do this, is the reason that I do.
I was told to do it and so I’m following through
as long as I can. I expect people don’t value much of what I have to say, as most people only pretend to respect my words when in fact, they only see me as the gatekeeper or the bouncer-
just trying to get closer to their illusion of my husband, Bhagavan Das. It’s not devotion, it’s not anything useful that is happening. It’s projection, glamour and insincerity. It’s just the zeitgeist of the times. For some reason I am bound here in this dilemma, stuck, trying to make you matter to me. Trying to believe your
false respect and consideration- trying to have faith in what I no longer believe in- and that’s me, and that’s you. I’m really not interested in us.
I’m not writing this to be profound- to secretly make somebody out of nobody as if I’ve come up with a nifty way to promote my egolessness.
I could really care less if I’m nobody or not.
If I’m right or wrong. If you care at all. If anybody cares at all. I’m not trying to matter to you- AND if I actually am and am fooling myself, I don’t care if it’s true either. I’ve really lost it all in ways that can’t be
told. I’ve nothing to gain or promote. I’m not holding on to you. If you cannot understand what
I am saying or it seems too abstract or unbelievable, that’s not my problem. You can do with my message what you will, which won’t likely be much because like I said already, I’m a novelty, I’m a mommy, I’m a prop without wings.
I can’t fly away without you. I’ve taken the vows
and so it’s all down hill from here….
If you want to know my philosophy or beliefs,
I don’t have one. I don’t have any.
I think a bunch of white people sitting around singing Hindu songs is stupid, pathetic at best.
I think religion is a hoax- I think we have no choice but to get entangled in each other. I’m not interested in conversation but I pretend to be, everything is a duty, a task for me. And you thought I liked you because I was gracious and seemed interested in what you had to say. However, I am not. I am an actor trapped on stage, just like you. I don’t care at all. The spotlight falls like an ax and it’s ugly…
The show goes on and on…I’m as numb as a hammer tired of pounding. I’ve built nothing with these nails. These new age lies spreading their virus all over Facebook- these sweet good Bernie lovers. What a joke. What a disease. We should be worried, but then again, why bother? This planet is a madhouse. Too many crossed wires and pot holes. Of course, I can’t do it without you.
Be the pretender, that is. Pretending I think there’s hope for any of us. Well, I don’t. That’s all I know. Everything else, I’m just talking shit,
to pass the time, to create a little friction, to make the stage more interesting. I’m so bored,
I can’t even tell you how boring this back and forth has become. There are no friends. There are no lovers. There is only prostitution and regret. Regret you didn’t make a better deal for yourself. Prostitution because we’re whores for every reason imagineable .
And since we’re so busy seducing and getting undressed for the Big One Coming we forget
how far $20 can actually go…
The things we do for things…
And even though I’ve raised my prices, it doesn’t feel any better…
So I get rid of things. I chase people away. That’s who I am when I’m not walking the streets looking to score- and don’t ask me why -to make more space I suppose. More emptiness to drive that nail a little deeper. It’s a crucifixion. What’s so fun about that?
Nailing a whore to a stake? I didn’t ask, it just happened. We hope that God might be there, but you really never know.
Blood and the words never said, is my life.