Originally, I planned on starting this post with “Flesh and the Power it Holds” by a certain Death metal band of bygone legend. But lately I can’t get this one out of my head.
See what’s ruling all our lives . . .
See who’s pulling strings . . .
See what’s ruling all our lives . . .
See who pulls the strings!
What I wouldn’t give to know.
This past year has felt, most of the time, like a cruel joke where I’m along for the ride in my own skin. And no matter how deep I claw, or how hard I fight, there’s nothing I can do to win.
It’s far from a victory, but I’m finally at the threshold where things could possibly get better. But it won’t come without immense pain, and possibly the greatest physical challenge of my life.
I already dealt with the emotional hell brought by my parents’ cancer, and still live with that every day. Now, for a little while, it’s my turn to suffer. But with each passing day, it really feels like I need to Be Quick or Be Dead.
I don’t know if it’s just the paranoia about the surgery setting in, but it feels like with each passing hour, I’m getting closer and closer to some unnamable point of no return. But I don’t know where I’m going, as odd as that sounds.
I do know that having this surgery will give me a second chance at life and allow me to live the way I always wanted to, without this burden. It also isn’t really a choice, as I’m now having pain almost daily, and the doctors already acted like the only reason I didn’t need further screening is because I’m getting the surgery.
My surgery is set for August 8th. Do or Die . . .
I found it kind of amusing, because it’s scheduled on the same day that Euronymous was murdered. He once was my greatest inspiration as a musician. Without him nailing himself to the upside-down crosses of epic black metal history, I doubt I ever would have played guitar. But even though he’ll have died that same day, exactly 30 years ago . . .
Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it eerie. But I know it’s my chance to be reborn in flame: To live a second life, as I was always meant to.
Honestly, if my dad didn’t have his weird little fit, I’m not sure if I’d be on the operating table right now or not. It was originally scheduled for this very day. Wait, fuck. I’m wrong. I’m a day behind. My internal clock is so messed up from the insomnia that I guess I’d be a day into recovery.
But I’m glad I didn’t go yet. I’m glad I took extra time to quit smoking, and to tie up loose ends with everyone I’ve ever wanted to meet again . . . Because if I didn’t push back the surgery date, I wouldn’t have gotten to drive around in the early hours of the morning blaring Iron Maiden and talking about maps with my soul-bound brother. I wouldn’t have gotten to have one last night of chain smoking at the electric chaos carnival . . . And I wouldn’t have gotten to this point in my mind where I can see a future that doesn’t suck.
I don’t know who’s sticking with me when I come out on the other side (well, except for one person, several disembodied aliens, and one dog). But as Prince Ralyn of Marduk in my still-unpublished Epic Gothic Space Opera once said . . .
“Some things are worth risking your life for.”
A simple quote, yet mind-bending all the same.
I have it in my power to change my life, and better yet, change my luck. But first, I need to walk through the fire. Then I can be strong for my mom, and for my brother, and myself . . . If the words won’t come for my own stories, I can keep writing with Xzyruz and let him explore his soul memories on a deeper level. I can hone my (apparently oddly sharp) skills in my field of interest, and eventually I’ll never have to write for a living again.
No one ever held my hand and helped me up, so it’s time to wear the spiked black pauldrons I always dreamed of. It’s time to become the monster I always wanted to be.
I’m closer now than ever to the right path–but I have a hell of a trip to make before I celebrate any so-called victories.
On August 8th I lay down my soul for the death of the light. So to speak . . . For the death of the false life I created to please others, and the countless stupid masks I wore.
A mask for society, a mask for a man . . . A mask for my parents, who wanted me to be young forever: But only in the ways where they could control me. A mask for the “professional” world, which I’m finally shedding in my new program. I’m introducing myself with my new name, and stomping upon these lame fucking masks I once hid behind.
If I can face the knife, I can face society’s scorn. Hell, after that, I’ll be able to face anything.
And besides . . . When the masks melt into your face, you become a sad clown forever. I’ve always been more of a Joker.