Mar 2014
With every deep inhale of smoke I feel like I bludgeon myself over the head with numbness. I quickly indite myself into the realm that old hippies sang about-- the giggly, bright eyed nature that is a door to escape out of. I find myself pulling away from the anxiety, finding a new peace in the immobility. It is the only excuse I have. I can say to myself, “It's okay. You're high. Everything is trivial and enjoy this. **** the things you should be doing.” But what should I always be doing? I don't know whether to slap myself or embrace the blissful stupidity. I gradually come closer to sobering up, and I slowly panic. I unsuccessfully doggie paddle among the insanity that my mind is drowning in, and I know I can sustain myself for a while. But that while will stop, and something has to happen, right?
Am I losing my mind? Though everyone seems to experience these kinds of anxieties, I feel more and more isolated. Venting, describing my pain doesn't even help when words can't sum up the intense circles I keep making. I'm pacing within the confines of the walls I make, and it's both good and bad that I have built them in the first place. The walls that surround me are more so of a maze rather than a distinct, open cage. Though I'm lost within what I created for myself, I try to battle, constantly slipping into a paradoxical coma. My stagnation forces these passions to build, though the passions won't have their way. I can't just find a singular way to funnel my energy, though there are so many routes of travel that open themselves to me, and all I can do is stagger at the sight.
I'm sick of trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do, and rather absorb what I do presently. It's easy to forget that the present exists when everything around you nearly pulls off your limbs in efforts to make you move in a certain direction. What if I'm not ready to be pulled in a direction, or even a multitude of directions? How am I supposed to decide when it hurts to be told you have everything in front of you when you can't tell what is real or not?
Am I losing my mind? Though everyone seems to experience these kinds of anxieties, I feel more and more isolated. Venting, describing my pain doesn't even help when words can't sum up the intense circles I keep making. I'm pacing within the confines of the walls I make, and it's both good and bad that I have built them in the first place. The walls that surround me are more so of a maze rather than a distinct, open cage. Though I'm lost within what I created for myself, I try to battle, constantly slipping into a paradoxical coma. My stagnation forces these passions to build, though the passions won't have their way. I can't just find a singular way to funnel my energy, though there are so many routes of travel that open themselves to me, and all I can do is stagger at the sight.
I'm sick of trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do, and rather absorb what I do presently. It's easy to forget that the present exists when everything around you nearly pulls off your limbs in efforts to make you move in a certain direction. What if I'm not ready to be pulled in a direction, or even a multitude of directions? How am I supposed to decide when it hurts to be told you have everything in front of you when you can't tell what is real or not?
Ramblings from last year
