I’m a junkie. Traveling through the back alleys of my mind for a fix, I’m addicted to thought. Chase away today’s reality with shots of yesterday’s almosts, no matter how bad it tastes. The disgust just means you’re feeling something. So keep running until all you feel is absolutely nothing. I’m still running.
I’ve ran my way into a MC Escheresque spiral stairway of all my worries, of how I’m worried. Which makes me worried about how much I’m worrying and so on and so on, so I’ll overdose on these daydreams and nod out with a smile on, even if it’s forced. Because I won’t let this world make me chain link sheep skin cannon fodder, cannot succumb to the blue pill mentality, no dreariness can set in these bones.
So now, in a time where everything screams broken and imperfect at you, showing you just what and how you need to tweak yourself perfect, and everyone desperately wanting to be the name shown in lights, now my greatest act of revolution is to simply love myself, and constantly learning what that means.
At first, you might have to just shove the words out there, “I love myself”, just to see how calmly your tongue flicks it into the air, it might feel forced, leave you trembling at the untruth of it, but sand your sorrows down smooth, feel how it slowly settles into the world around you, like a puzzle pieced shaped like hot cocoa and a fireplace. Like lighthouse, like sunshine and smiles, like being able to start at least trying to go to sleep sober, lying awake when that doesn’t work, and then instead of whiteknuckling my heartstrings, I laugh like a bellows, fueling that fireplace puzzle piece, saying with full giggling insomniac exhaustion, I love myself.
Like a delirious mantra gifted to me from a street corner preacher looking for god in the jingling of silver coins, it’s starting to sound less like a lie and more like a crazy story I tell myself, like Donald Trump isn’t really president, or God.
Now I say I love myself the way someone says they won the lottery or they just got laid, with the gusto of an excited puppy hopped up on Ritalin and Red Bull, but thank god, actually thank myself, that I’m not on Ritalin anymore. I’m starting to actually form a sense of self that I can actually compose in my head and be like, hey! That’s me! And I love me. For getting myself here. I found my faith in god when I found faith in myself.
Now I don’t visit the alleys in my head as much, I’m looking for better property on the other side of my amygdala, left the gutter no matter how much art can be found there, it’s not worth drowning yourself trying to get it. Find art within, and let it drown you.
Charles Dalton Telschow is a 23 year old Denver poet/musician who lives off of existential angst and marijuana. He does not enjoy elitist Phish fans. His perfect day would be waking up in a random country in a van surrounded by friends and music gear, stumbling out and walking around, having a beer before playing a show with close friends and his significant is with him too. Dalton writes poems on whatever he can. Sticky notes and receipt paper.