Chaos Theory

We barely remember who or what came before this precious moment,
We are choosing to be here right now. Hold on, stay inside
This holy reality, this holy experience.
Choosing to be here in

This body. This body holding me. Be my reminder here that I am not alone in
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal
All this pain is an illusion.

Alive, I

In this holy reality, in this holy experience. Choosing to be here in

This body. This body holding me. Be my reminder here that I am not alone in
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal
All this pain is an illusion.

Twirling round with this familiar parable.
Spinning, weaving round each new experience.
Recognize this as a holy gift and celebrate this chance to be alive and breathing.

This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality.
Embrace this moment.
Remember.
We are eternal.
All this pain is an illusion.

-Parabola, Tool


It's all coming back to me, like some sort of sickness or stressed scar tissue. The feeling of being alone, of being forgotten, and then a deeper feeling of not being known in the first place.
I isolate myself and then complain of being isolated; I grow unhappy and feed the sickness. I am my own worst enemy... I strike at myself and twist my own ideas into mockeries. There is nothing of which I can do that I can't also destroy completely. My best works and my most powerful ideas are rendered by my impotent hands as mere ghosts of ghosts. I don't see anything besides myself and I double back all my hatred of the world at myself. I can no longer look in a mirror or bear to hear my voice. I silence myself and alienate my friends. I don't know what I've become- the closest I can see of the world is my own twisted mind. A snake, eating its tail.
Can you fathom the emptiness you can feel in only one night, one hour or minute when all you can see is blackness inside and out, when the only sound is that of your mind screaming, when the only thing you feel is the fury and the rage and the pain towards yourself which is simply echoed back at you because you're already empty. Can you imagine a day where all you wanted was to cease and to be alone with yourself so you could fight yourself in peace and then the world steps in and you lash out in what appears to be adolescent fury but is something darker and deeper and you want to scream until your lungs shear and your corporeal body splits in half so that you can reach your soul and tear it out and smash it and kill it.

I don't want to die. That would be too easy. I simply want to find this ache, this clenched muscle of emotion, and destroy it. I don't want to cure it. I want to cauterize it and burn it out of existence. Because it's there, it's in my stomach and my mind and my back and neck and eyes, and it's eating me away like cancer. When I can go to sleep and not dream of pain, when I can see a crowd and not fall back and trip on my throat, when I can exist without watching my hands shake with anger, I will be able to let go. But until that moment, until that time, these memories haunt me with some sort of cold and calculated precision. They float back to me in a scythian procession, tearing my hands away and forcing me to see the echos of something I never knew existed and never could forget.


I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing,
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn’t mean I don’t desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I’ve done the the math enough to know the dangers of a second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion

Between supposed lovers
Between supposed lovers.

And I know the pieces fit.

-Schism, Tool