If I'm going to wait for the
Big
little earth shattering thing I do.
By holding my breath.

I might die.

I can take the little things.
Maybe?
And use them to breathe.
So I don't pass out when the big one comes.

Today,
This pen took orders.
"Write them."
It wrote that.

My face smiled when I wasn't happy.
My legs knew they were tired but didn't stop.

I remembered to straighten my tie.
And wash my hands.

I got abused and didn't give any back.
I wanted to so badly.

I didn't hate anything today.
I wasn't happy about anything today.
The hell kind of day is this?
The hell kind of day is this?
Is this a kind day in hell?
Is hell just like this?
trapped in ice.
Like Dante's devil.

In my little notebook I rambled about other stuff I didn't feel today.
I don't have to list it.
I can.
Quick.

I tore out some notebook paper.
Blank.
Burned it.
Made a wish.
For anything.
Just now. I listed it. I gave up gave in.

To feel anything.

Even tired.
Even sad.
Even angry.
Or furious.
Make the djinn make my heart burn,
if he can't crack the ice.
Let's melt it.
Even the pain would be something.
Even a little hurt would keep me going.
Remind me I was still going.

You're like a match at night.
The dusk settled.
It's navy blue out and I can see okay.
I see something on the other side of the little yard.
That must be pretty,
I think.
Then I strike my lighter.
Hold the flame between me and anything.
That pretty thing.
You drown out the world.
Your light. fed by the wind.
Trying to blow you out.

Oh god this makes me awfully anxious.
I'm writing this in a floor seat at a huge theatre.
There's all these eyes around.
I know they don't care.
Not about me.
The ****** in the blue suit.
Tearing away at a notepad.
What if they do?
What if the couple behind me is catching
every other word?
It makes me smile.
The danger of it.

I go there,
I just gotta make my head stop working.
You thrash yourself hard enough.
And it does.
Must be the most sensitive gym rat around.

Or maybe that's why we're all here.

I couldn't come before.
At school when it was all going...
Well it was going.
I tried. But why run when
You aren't running from anything.
All those joggers are being chased
Those guys pushing up heavy bars
Are pushing away something terrible.

It's not the weights that are tearing us apart.
It's the weight you dan't drop.
That's falling so hard.

You can forget it's there.
We're like alcoholics.
And crack heads.

I don't feel it in everything yet.
I'm staring at these flowers being thrashed
(gently)
by the wind.
And for all my metaphors about winds of change
and being violently thrown around.
I don't see it the same.
I keep waiting to really
Feel
That connection.
Appreciate the universality,
the totality
inherent value of life.
But it isn't here yet.
I need to get out.

I don't know if I can keep it.
But right now I'm suspended in happiness.
The air is thick with it.

I found that place I was just talking about.
Even my letters look less frantic.
The words still fall out.
But slower now.

The other stuff came out like *****.
I was,
(am but not now)
Sick.
A sick mind has to write like that.
Fast.
Each word running away from the last.
Like they're trying to lift off the page
before they become part of a letter
left to tell why something terrible happened.

It may be the eye of the storm.
But still.
It's so beautiful.
And still.

The wind is blowing gently against me now.
Yeah,
It's still out there.
A storm I mean.
I can almost hear the far off howls over the crickets.
But the crickets,
I like them.
The soft light in here, I like it.
Like the orange glow at dusk.
Night might fall on me soon.
But the orange light is so gentle
and the air is so cool.
It feels like only better things can come.