I disassociate to my "friends" lives scrolling by, I don't need any spliff or fungus to reach Peak apathetic non self congruence. Watching years pass by in seconds Is all the psychedelic room temperature Mental priming for my primate mental That I could ever hope for
Before being snapped back out By the cubed carrot reward of Internet interaction Which keeps me salivating and searching For ways to increase the amount of time I don't have to associate with that guy inhabiting my body For a while I can see my problems as goners Being slowly erased from my mind like a magnet over a hard drive
Until a kindly panic attack reminds my of My lack of lack of control And the selfless self centered guilt keeps me Wishing I were working instead of living Who could be so audacious As to propose a life out side
breathe. in. out. what do you see? computer-ruler-pen-calculator. sticky note. sticky note. desk. bag. chair. what else do you see? person-person--person---person----person. who? i don't know. where are you? does it matter? who are you? i forgot. what are you? disassociating.
I'm so nostalgic these days and I know you've heard that all before the whole "I'm listening to old songs on repeat and re-reading the broken stories I keep to find myself again" thing—but hear me out. No, this time I really mean it Nostalgia is not a dark cloud lingering above my head but a thunderstorm rumbling below my feet and every moment of every day I'm tumbling through it and trying to pretend I don't see concrete hurdling towards me like it has some twisted sense of vengeance, some sort of hunger for my life. And occasionally perhaps I can forget how broken I feel, and be content with what this is. But this is a small life and it's an even smaller smile when laughing at your jokes but turning up a noise-dial in my head so that I don't have to hear myself think let alone breathe over the chatter about how unremarkable I've become.
There's no sanctity to my mind, no peace in my heart, and no rest for my spirit.
So I'm nostalgic, and yes, I mean it. I'm listening to old songs on repeat. Combing through ancient poems and pictures; staring at a face that once upon a time, shared my likeness— but now she mirrors my demons.
Sometimes I read this and it makes sense. Sometimes I read this and it's nowhere truthful enough.