I, The extroverted wallflower
Want you to see me,
While you look right past me.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want to stand out
While I blend in.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want you to close your lips
And talk to me.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want to be alone
In a room of people  
I the extroverted wallflower
Want you to know who I am
While you know nothing of me.
I the extroverted wallflower
Am privately open.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Am neither here
Nor gone.

I never thought about it that much
But making conversation is really hard stuff
Put me on stage without a script and I'll shine
Put me in a group of girls and I'll cry
Because I'm a one of a kind extroverted introvert
Really ******* confident and out of it
But incredibly ******* shy
I never really thought about what I say that much
I think the most honest form of communication is touch
If I want you out of my space I'll mumble "go away"
But my actions are a lot louder throwing a punch at your face
I struggle over Facebook when you say "what up"
Because I'll say "hey" and immediately log out
Its like my personality wants to be known
But my words are muffled and rarely shown
I'm a one of a kind extroverted introvert
I don't expect you to understand

.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

It promised to be quite ordinary,
that old student/new student/faculty social hour.

I had come to Champaign with high hopes a year earlier,
starting a new career (--and hoping to find someone to love).
Now, with just three months left,
my studies had been a success,
but I had not found anyone to love.
And now I was thinking beyond Champaign:
where I would go, what I would do with my new degree.

I scanned the faces in the crowd.
Mixed in with all-too-familiar classmates and teachers were new people:
A formidable, blonde-haired woman
with a big voice and a large imitation pearl necklace;
no meek, retiring librarian here; a Valkyrie.
A guy with wire-rimmed glasses in his early twenties;
congenial, but serious; he had studied engineering.
A girl; stylish, extroverted;
loved Faulkner; engaged to be married.
A sensitive, thirty-ish woman; recently divorced;
her ex had stuck her with a mountain of credit card debt.
And you, in a pink dress.
No jewelry, not much makeup.
Nice figure.
Very simple, very pretty.
A wonderful smile.
Obviously bright.
You had gone here as an undergraduate.
You had taught school in Iowa for several years
and now were back to get a Library degree.
You had grown up on a farm.
You were eminently lovable.
You were, amazingly, unmarried.

I felt that I was at an art exhibition in nineteenth century France.
Here was Raffaelli's "Boulevard of the Italians"
which had sold for 500 francs.
Over here Lecomte de Nouy's "Ramses in His Harem"
which had brought 1900.
And over here in the corner, neglected,
Van Gogh's, "The Artist's Room at Arles".
I felt like shouting,
"My friends, can't you see the beauty of this painting:
its simplicity and purity, its energy; the symphony of its colors!
You have opted for these smooth, conventional paintings
and left this one, the most valuable of all, unsold. . . ."

I felt like hugging you, right then and there.

You were number two or three on my all-time "instant attraction" list.
But I was wary -- so many others had not worked out, why would you?

Our first date was a "Streetcar Named Desire".
I put my arm around you during the play and held your hand as we walked back    toward your apartment.
I invited you to "Bubby and Zadie's" cafe. You refused and offered no alternative.
I was devastated. So this, too, would come to nothing.
We would walk the three blocks back to your apartment.  We would say    goodnight.
I would go home and cry. That would be that.

But when we arrived, my hopes soared: you invited me up to your apartment. You really just didn't like Bubby and Zadie's -- and you liked and trusted me well enough that the intimacy of your apartment didn't seem inappropriate. We talked for a long time and kissed. When I left, all traces of wariness were gone. The coming weeks would not be ordinary.

outgoing?
I'd say outspoken
never been arbitrary
or overbearing-
just vocal

my passion runs deep
and pours out
excited
overflowing
when it finds
another soul to share it with

the energy
others direct towards me
I absorb
and like a mirror
reflect it back towards them

the energy
that rests inside me
is like water
waiting
for an outside force
to heat me up
excite
my molecules
or
to cool me down
mellow
the chaos inside me
making me stable
making me solid

if being an extrovert
makes me
popular and
domineering,
a fun-loving,
party animal
who lacks introspection,

tell me why
I always choose
to isolate myself

why
my few friends I do have
I keep at a distance
except when I force myself
to enjoy their company
once or twice
in a year

why
I am easily talked over
my words drowned out
ignored
like background noise
my input
apbrubtly halted
as others drive over it
making it no more
than the dust
their tires kick up
why I let them
talk over me
rather than raise my voice

why I would rather
read in solitude
than go to a party
or play a video game
rather than socialize
why
would I choose
to ponder existence
over
existing with others

extroverted
means I get my energy
from external events
rather than the internal

I am not a synonym
for gregariousness

What do you do when you feel uninspired??

It’s been so long since I last wrote a piece. I don’t consider myself a poet. I consider myself an inspirational writer. I write about what I feel and though I feel a lot of things I’m just not the same. I haven’t felt inspired to write. I haven’t felt the urge. I haven’t been moved. Words elude me. I feel like I’m blocked and I’m unhappy. How did you overcome and grasp your inspiration when it left?

To tell you a bit about me and my struggles. I have a double personality. One person is Jon. The other is Dom. Hence my username. I am Jon. A quiet, introvert. Mostly keep to myself. Dom is extroverted and into some aspects of the **** lifestyle. Dom went through a rough time feeling betrayed by the one he loved and still loves, to be honest. My family never understood me and they ravaged what beautiful thing I once held in my arms. I was still writing until I suddenly wasn’t anymore.  

I want to write. I need to write but the words just don’t flow. Please help! I’m slowly dying inside.

Did I tell you?

I’m kind of quiet… no, really, I am. You should see me around people I don’t know…. Ha, yes, I know you don’t believe me… I talk my socks off around you. But, you’re different. You already know the contents of me… I mean, you may not have read every page in detail, but you get the rough draft. Not many people get that. Man, what a stuck up ***** they say… Miss goody two shoes is too good for us… Not all of us are rich like you they say. Oh, how I wish I was any of those things…it wouldn’t sting when they mistook me for anything but the plains, but instead they see skylines and frosted mountains. I am not as complex, I am not as breathtaking, I am not such a climb. It’s funny. i have it together - it appears from the outside looking in. On the inside, I’m so tired. I know you know this - but they don’t. They don’t see 14 hour days, 98 hour weeks, 5,784 hour years… of on the go, here you can have my time, my peace, my arms, my legs, my soul. They don’t see that. They don’t see me helping the family when they need food that week..and me not eating. They don’t see my sore back, my restless nights, or the loneliness that follows endless hours. I’m the one missing out… and they think I am better than them. If they only knew how much I wished I could be more like them and less like me…. how they are the morning skies… and I am merely a spectacle to their bold colors. They’re outspoken, care free, sociable, …extroverted. I wouldn’t dare say a word. I know even then they wouldn’t get me… not like you do. I just sit back - quietly, watching, listening, absorbing…an abused sponge from one too many passes on the burnt pan. Ha, that’s me. Still giving my all - in whatever pieces are left of me, trying to shine the world. Silly I am. I’m ready to get out of here… or find myself again, and stop smothering my heart. It’s an out of control fire and my day to day has become the dirt. I think if I exhale in a week you may just see smoke pouring from my lungs… I’m burning out. Can you tell?

Descartes' verb interaction is perhaps a shallow fact to grasp, but given the word therefore is an adverb, there must also be a counter to this, given some people are introverted, or extroverted as the original cartesian model suggests - so therefore can also become what the daydreamers get up to, for if thinking precipitates a sort of being, it can also precipitate a sort of non-being (the limit of such reasoning to suggest non-existence is a bit like reasoning the existence of god); i.e. therefore (ergo) apart from being an adverb (toward action) can also be an abverb (ab-, the prefix expanded in modern tongue as: absence - the commuters on the train... just sitting) - hence the after-mentioned mathematical stimulation of deciphering would be better suggested as not =, but as ⇌.

i've noticed this when reading philosophy books,
after engaging in one, you suddenly run out
of steam, you are creating a void, and by creating a void
through lack of hope for originality or demanding it,
and by creating a void you become stalled in what
you deem to be the adequate waterfall of lettering
arrange into word on paper, you create this vast
chasm that's an "antidote" to the cartesian res cogitans...
upon reading a philosophy book you turn into
a *res vanus, or should i say, an empty thing, a vacuum,
upon rejuvenation you do encounter thought,
but by turning yourself into a res vanus you
encounter thought as equatable with your ego,
as in: this is you, narrating in secret -
unlike the 26 unit equation of Hegel plagiarised
by Ginsberg in his poem the end:
i am i, old father fisheye that begot the ocean,
the worm at my own ear (new testament quote
about escaping hell, the worm at your own ear
gnashing its silica SiO2 teeth turned into glass,
glass teeth that then shatter) - the three words of
genesis are borrowed from Hegel's outlines
of the principle of rights, he too states the same,
the i am i, and furthers it by ascribing the word
am with the mathematical symbol =,
i wonder what word could be ascribed to other
words... perhaps in original terms ergo could be
Gemini as + and ÷... the latter case obviously
symbolical of schizophrenia, - (minus) typical of
depression, and x (multiplier) and ego trip,
that ultimate trip without intake of any Amazonian
substance or ingestion of a Swiss chemists' champagne
moment on a bicycle? i wonder. **** it, i digressed,
moment of rereading to find the river once more.
ah yes, this conception of a res vanus came to me
unlike Paul McCartney's yesterday, right in front of me,
first i read the day's newspaper, very depressing
material... then i picked up Kant again,
only briefly, i felt this sudden suggestion that upon
reading philosophy you are emptied, emptied in order
to become a blank canvas for someone to paint
something into your mind, the reason being is the
championing of thought in philosophical books,
to read them you seem to have to assume being empty,
rather than being brimful with thought,
i.e. jumping to too many conclusions and nodding
or shake-of-the-head assertions - there's no
parallelism with that notion of being a thinking thing
(a res cogitans), it can only come by a stance of
emptying or a pervasive adjective (quality) omni-
as regarded emptiness. i realised that the only way to
reattach myself to my own narrative was to engage
with a philosophical dynamic once again,
prior to yesterday i hadn't bothered to peer in once more
and wrote a detail of yesterday's events, not to my liking,
a lack of continuity rose up, a fizzing nugget of
phosphorus on water. if i left my eyes strained on
merely the newspaper i wouldn't have written this,
it had to be Kant, again.
but indeed upon turning into this res vanus of my
own invention, the principium is followed by
a definite articulation (mediating away from a definite
article) in Hegelian sense with mathematical grammar
via (+, -, x, ÷, etc.) to say: well if am is suggestive of =,
mediating expressive egoism and repressive egoism,
then res vanus, has to provide a similar product,
not a parallelism whereby one man thinks himself
extroverted in the medium of thought, but actually
introverted in the medium of being, but rather a
convergence (Oxford will take years to ascribe an -ism
on this matter)... since after disengaging from res vanus
upon reading a philosophy narrative,
it is a convergence of the pinnacle of decisive identity,
in that i = thought, of course Kołakowsi would
argue counter specifications of this grammatical construct,
he already did so when referring to dancing the tango
in his book culture & fetishes, i'm obviously disregarding
grammatical categorisation as a rigid Eiffel tower
monument to human endeavour,
i can state i = thought since both are personal associations,
Heidegger's famous contribution: we're still not thinking.
i don't care to suggest that thought is an Atlas with
the nouns world, helplessly balancing the many attributes
of what we call thought: the thought to steal, the thought
to care, the thought to obey, the thought to lie...
within such a list thinking is hardly definite, it's indefinite,
but what is definite in this respect is that we can identify
thought as ourselves, this is what stems from the res vanus
principium, a principle that allows for philosophy books
to be actually read, since reading them is permitted when
the contradiction of the cartesian res cogitans is lost.

I sit often in my bed,
wishing for inspiration to melt its way from my heart
into my fingertips
which click against the keys on this machine
to form words that get jumbled in my brain,
that I may untangle their knots
and loosen their grip
just enough that the ache in my forehead subsides,
and the weight on my chest is lifted even a little.
Most of the time,
whatever reactions are supposed to happen in me,
whatever connections are supposed to form
don’t,
and I continue to ache until the numbness sets in.

I handle emotions alone.
I don’t seek attention.
I don’t want the weakness.
I don’t reach out,
because I got sick of the sting
of each slap that shouldn’t have surprised me.
I love being alone;
In fact, I crave it,
but I miss the social sense of belonging that used to balance me out.
I want to grasp a hand that is stretched out to me
for a change,
but the air is always empty.

Even as I type this
I am running out of words that explicate
the cause of the dyspnea that overwhelms me
at abrupt, random moments,
and my ability to form lucid, complete thoughts
is lost.

How do you wipe a wound that isn’t even bleeding?
How do you heal a bone that isn’t even broken?
How to you fix a muscle that isn’t even torn?

I am not fragmented.
I am not cracked.
I am not damaged,
yet something in me is still leaking,
seeking something more.

I am not standing in the darkness;
I am just waiting for this sun to shed light
on a soul that knows
when to reach out
and when to let me be.

you that turmeric has the same properties as saffron, right? oh sure sure, you want yellow rice, you plop a teaspoon of turmeric into the rice being boiled, and ****! out it come, yellow. saffron is for pompous people, but turmeric is the same as saffron, plus? it's way way cheaper, and it does the same job.

at the local (supermarket) -
and i can't feel the bitter loneliness
while walking down an aisle
   of ready-meals...

   to be honest, walking in a graveyard
gives me a more cheerful aura
than walking in the supermarket...

but there's something even more sad
than what i already cited:
   i.e., graveyards seem more abundant
in happiness that supermarket
  aisles...

at the check-out, being asked for my age...
31... beard like pirate,
         just asking: huh?
    dude, you're 24, i'm 31, even when i was
16 i wasn't asked for my age
   buying cheap cider in an offie (off-license)
or a ****-mag (ah, those days,
where you would be publically "shamed"...
but then in the 00s,
        **** sites were infested with
the trojan virus...
           you didn't know which ones were
legitimate)...
  so yeah,
        try buying a ***** mag these days,
ha ha, good luck;
   oddly enough, in belgium there's no
weird aura buying such a mag...
                       even if you're under-age.

so back to the supermarket...
            people just desperate for a conversation,
to break the professionalism
                                    of politeness...
the routine: (a) do you have a club-card?
  (b) do you need help packing?
  (c) how will you be paying?

         all of this must seem like listening
   to a hammer a hundred nails per minute...
      
    so we start talking,
                                             beards, age, dogs...
and it's not even a sign of being extroverted,
rather: i need to talk more words than
   this function allows me...
                             oh, a black labrador?
  nibbles on your beard?
     how old do you look?
            shave it off, you'd look 20 / 21...
    'you're going to be my new best friend,
i'm actually 24',
     well, you know, us white "dudes"
       reach their full ****** potential in
  our late twenties...

    talking:
         blah blah blah, blah bah black sheep,
i could do with just referring to
   a dog's barking, or a cat meowing...
                still...
    people in supermarkets, in ready-meal
aisles,
         begging for someone to rescue them
to cook them a meal from scratch...
   what do all these people do with the time
in between buying a ready-meal
   cooking it in a microwave for 15 minutes
   and then what?

                              can't be all t.v., surely?
where's the joy of watching ingredients change
colour, and exfoliate like buds into flowers
in late spring?
                      cardamom... probably my favourite
ingredient... yeah, cloves...
                        oh **** me, a bay leaf...
                             cinnamon, sure sure...
               still,
    i find more happiness walking through a cemetary
than that eerie lonliness and sadness
    of ready meals and un-drunk liquor
   as i get, walking through a supermarket.

p.s. i really wasn't thinking or implying
  ginsberg's ode to whithman that
begins with:
              what thoughts i have of you tonight...
  
   ****-eroticism: perfected on paper...
             and that's where i like it,
   on paper...  
    if it's ****-eroticism it's best performed
                 on paper...
     and sure, *michel de montaigne    
                                       on melancholy -

top three cemeteries? o.k. four...
    père lachaise (paris)
  newington cemetery (edinburgh)
       old calton burial ground (edinburgh)
kirkut (ostrowiec św.)
   the last one? jewish, with the burial stones
stacked against each other.

Note to stranger:

Don't let her long eyelashes fool you
Stemming off from eyelids filled with promise
Pupils composed of green and brown paint
Mixed and made permanent by the look on her face when you ask her what love means to her

Because to her
Love is an antique promise
Tic Tac Toed into her shoulder blades
Another lost game

Lonely is made apparent by the reveal of her hipbones
Sticking out from the belt loops on the waistband of her dreams
Her clothes become looser

She is welcomed by friends to parties that she refuses to go to
Because even in a room of people
The only emotion she is capable of feeling
REALLY feeling
Is lonely

And you may argue that lonely is not an emotion
But a state of being
But when she truly feels it
Lonely becomes both

Discolored tulips growing for a flowerpot of unfertilized dirt
Masked by a smile that could fool anyone
Even her own father
Sometimes even herself

Mascara stained floor tile
Quick change scenes
Equivalent to her multiple personalities
Sad happy sad happy
Sad...

She is capable of being both sad and happy
She is introverted AND extroverted
She is 5 million different people
Sometimes wishing she could narrow herself down to just one
She is ME

For One to be Open,
all One must do
is not be Closed.

Aye; indeed t'is the rub
that such is so much easier said
than t'is done.

Yea, tho that be true;
t'is but the knowledge thereof, itself,
that arms the worthy Ones with the potential
to be Aware,
and thus
to overcome.

T'is not a matter of innate ability:
t'is rather a matter of choice;
of practice;
of attention:
of Openness.

Seek that you may become Open
(not that you aren't,
but I know I  so often forget
and thus I assume
that others must as well!)
by attempting to train yourself
not to be Closed;
try to remember
to not be Closed.

It only shrinks your world.
Trust me: I've been there.

I sometimes forget to leave.


Moral of the story:
Seek to be an Open Person
rather than a Closed one.
I don't mean extroverted or introverted,
I don't mean monogamous or polyamorous,
I don't mean liberal or conservative,
I don't mean religious of atheist,
I don't mean anything like that;
It's much deeper:
more fundamental to your Self:

*Do not close yourself off.
That is damnation.

Remain in pursuit of Openness.
It is the best path to Awakening.

Black flags hoisted high in some wild parade
Occupied residences, the terrified children cry
Under militant control now, Fallujah mourns
There's no time for petty metaphorical advance
Sludge tracks are worn, boots muddied, bloodied
It's a strange agreement to use their houses
for this, the extroverted violence of a dark regime
The Sunnis' purge, spurned; new conflict arises
In Ramadi they cry too, it's cyclical, this eternal war

When will Iraq see absolution
and it's people get to sleep at night?

through the looking glass i see.
i know right, im that girl
whose life is far from the word perfect
and no one wants to be me.
cracked, bitter, gloomy, broken ?

and im dealing with my own self.
hiding under my blankets, dark in my own cave.
introverted soul trapped in an extroverted personality.
they tell me im emotionless,
but im just not good at expressing my feelings.
they say im neglectful,
i think they just cant dip into my world.
they say im freaking out,
for me im just me

but whose life im living now?
oh for God's sake!
imma live my own life,
not other people's life.
im gonna go a hundred miles and live my dreams.
i will be who i wanna be.
im gonna scream, im gonna sing.
i will write hundreds of poetry, thousands of poetry.
i will free myself.

i will heal myself.
im buying new pillows, new cute glasses,
i will paint my nails blue and green,
i will dye my hair.
taking sick days and letting myself fall apart
but just then i will buy myself some candies and i will be okay again.
i just wanna be alright again and i know i will.
im gonna laugh till i cry,
im gonna skip classes to study at the library.
imma be disgusting and cry into my wounds.
going on a walk by myself
and tell everyone they look gorgeous.
i will dress nicely,
and make others feel alright about themselves.
imma read books, drink a cup of tea, and buy myself succulents.

i wanna love hard, i want an extraordinary love.
im gonna love the people i love.

i wanna be mad, passionate, going insane.

i dont want mediocres,
my love is not a mediocre thing.

i will live my life and i'll be okay.

(Song for the Genteel Salesman Blocking My Path Each Time)

If only you knew.

Beneath blonde, rebonded locks
Curled extroverted lashes
Cemented titanium dioxide
Plastered patient breathless pores

Lips-wine-red
Nose elongated,
Dark strokes  imprudent
Cleopatric windows to
Sadness of soul.

Maverick femininity in
Saccharine swan-like greeting

If only you knew.

Eden was perfect paradise
She who was crafted
Immaculately from your rib

She was your Soulmate
You were Beloved
Protector, keeper,
Nourisher of her being

If only you knew.

You are treasured by Him
Who fashioned you
Out of mud
Breathed life into your nostrils

From nothingness
You were imago dei.

You were anointed shepherd
Of all that lived
Moved; slid.

You were perfect
Majestic  in Truth

You were imago dei

As you should have been
And can still be.

Panic sinks its teeth
into my laboured lungs,
my shortened breaths
signalling their imminent collapse.

Breathe in, breathe out
I've been through this before.
It's going to be alright,
it's just a panic attack.

Walking down the crowded street
among the lucky extroverted souls,
who can blind themselves
with the cacophony created by a cold city's chaos.

Keep my eyes trained on the ground,
but keep a vigilant eye on the sidewalk behind,
To be sure fear, won't ever catch up to me.

"Being an introvert in an extroverted
world can absolutely be difficult."
Came across this on some blog.
Think it's more complex to be a mediocre, an extro-intro or an intro-extro...
you can't go all out... you won't remain all in...
you're doomed to be in the twixt. Yet the middle is dangerous...
The middle of the Ocean is the deepest, the middle
of the jungle is the riskiest... the middle of the garden
of Eden doomed an entire race...
for its existence... no driver would drive freely in the middle lane,
most run to the climbing lane soon as they see it.
Some say the Earth is trapped between Heaven and Hell...
maybe we're a compound of Paradisal elements and
the rumbles of the Hades...
the pawns in the Chess between God and Satan, the Jobs in the bible of now...
I'm a Junk of all trades & I'm afraid being in between trades makes me a master of non...
I know too much and yet I know nothing... I am an extro-intro...
I go out only until the plank starts to swing the other way...
I go out until I sense the cold and quickly run back to the lukewarm
betwixt for the hot is as fatal to my kind as the cold.
Am not an Author and neither am I a poet... Am a "Poether'' or an "Auoet", Am not philosophical neither am I Theological...am "philological" or "Theolophical".
I'm trapped at the equator... I'm neither an Eskimo nor an "Antactico"...
Not Ugandan nor Kenyan... Tanzania can't claim me
but there's yet to be a concrete East African...
maybe I'm African.
My point is some people think the middle is safe...
but I believe different. it's my opinion if you want to be a piglet be one,
if you want to be a puppy be a puppy for its fatal to be a Pipet or puppet...
both are instruments... even their use is similar.
My tragedy is am in between, am a mediocre, a pother,
an opssimist, a philothopher, a ctranger or say "Ukantan".
I'm just there... Don't be caught in my place...
find a place to belong... no matter how dangerous and risky...
always choose where you lie...always strive hard to find a prowess...
Go past the lines for History remembers those who are unique...
whether for the worst or the best.
Be the last if you can't be the first...
*Everyone will remember Mabirizi for he knew how to be the last...
And sadly everyone will remember Museveni for he's good at keeping his place.
Who will remember the one in between.
Who will remember Besigye? Who will remember the servant boy that
cautioned Achilles against fighting the Thessalonian?
Who will remember me?

you’ve been on my mind recently
i don’t think i love you
perhaps just the idea of loving someone is enough
or more accurately, the idea of someone loving me
i know it was never anything real
when you complimented me
or tried talking to me
but it’s too late now,
i’ve been consumed by my thoughts of you
but i have become obsessed with the idea of you
and it drives me to insanity
yearning to know if “what if” could be definite
and i know it’s so insignificant compared to the vastness of the sky
and the overwhelming stresses of day to day life
but i tell myself you are the most important thing life has to offer

i hate it
i hate that no matter where i am
or what i’m doing
you find a way to seep into the crevices of my brain
and make the contents in my chest quiver
i hate that i feel unwanted because of you
it should not be your decision to make me feel worthy
yet your validation has suddenly become
the purpose of the breaths i take
i want nothing to do with you,
but even saying that, i know it is a deadpan lie
i know you aren’t interested
you’re too good for and to me and my desperate soul
so i will repress this hopeful, naive heart
that believes in the impossible
i know your love isn’t love
i know your kindness isn’t as harmless as it seems
yet i still think about your hands and hair over dinner
and imagine gazing into your eyes when reading any book

love is meant for fools
and i will not be made a fool of
not by a boy with bright red hair
and a bright warm smile
i will not be made a fool of
by a boy who’s love will never manifest deeper than my skin
i had always admired from afar
but it’s time to really distance myself
i need to stop looking for your red head
in the sea of brunettes and blondes
i need to stop myself and my brain
from searching for you
you once were interested in me
and as you break my heart as i once broke yours
the balance of the universe is restored
yet i don’t feel steady
i don’t feel equilibrium

i want the void that consumes me
i want the void to be filled, preferably by you
but it wasn’t meant to be
i wasn’t made for you
you know you’re too good for me
conversations fall flat
being with you would take copious amounts of work
work that won't be put in by either of us
i want the relationship with all the benefits
without the heartache and wet cheeks

i wonder who you love now
i wonder if you still change your interest
like the tides are influenced by the moon every night
i wonder if the one who has gained your interest is gorgeous,
with an extroverted personality
i wonder if they have all the things you wanted me to have
but could never develop
i can’t believe you would make me weak in the knees and in the head
i know you are an unhealthy habit i indulge in,
but buried in my gut,
i whisper prayers to a god i do not believe in
i pray that your soft spoken eyes will fall upon me
and that an electric current will go through your body
i pray you are slowly driven to madness,
the insanity that has enveloped me
i will refuse your actions
because i don’t really love you

i love the idea of someone loving me
i love the power i have over you
i do not love you
i love the attention you provide
i love the thought of getting what i want
feeling your blood drip through my fingers
as i squeeze your heart in my clenched fists
you don’t realize this, but you’re a pawn in my chess game
i am bedridden, sickened because you refuse to participate
but that’s okay
i don’t want or need you as desperately as i once thought
i will let you go, and although i will miss
fantasizing over the idea of you
you will truly be the one who loses in the end,
i have no doubt

Six years ago, the normal, brainy girl named Grace died. At least, that's when her body was found. It's likely she'd been dead a couple years longer than that. She was survived by bubbly friends and a doting family, who all were wracked by the loss.

Why is this eulogy so late, though, if she was so beloved? Because no one noticed she was dead, really dead, until today. Not even Grace.

When she noticed her brain wasn't quite right, she knew things would never be the same. That's how having a bad brain worked. She'd always be taking medicine, she'd always be watching every little move she made. It was a constant production, keeping all the parts together. Grace was strong and brave and quick to jump onto that.

However, somehow it slipped right by her how permanent everything was.

She knew to stay healthy she'd always have to be working on herself. She knew she'd constantly be changing. She knew she'd be a hard person to love.

But she didn't realize that her brain would stay broken, really broken, no matter how much of a good girl she was.

Six years ago, the girl named Grace was reserved but passionate. Extroverted but in love with her books. A straight A student. A great friend. The perfect daughter. She was messy, but she was focused. And maybe she didn't sleep a lot, but boy did she have so many dreams.

The broken brain took away invigorating, sleepless nights.

The broken brain chased off all her friends.

The broken brain tanked her grades.

The broken brain made her feel safer alone.

The broken brain made her organize everything, because it was the only thing she could control.

But what made it easier was seeing all her progress, watching the graph of her illness rise, even if it was still a jagged line. Grace felt that even if she was broken and moody and difficult that she was getting better.

But today, everything changed.

Looking at all her meds and all her schedules and all her coping strategies and all her perfect practices in place, and still feeling hollow inside, she realized it wasn't just that other people couldn't fix her and make her whole again.

She couldn't either.

No matter how hard she worked, or how much she believed, or how many times she corrected for every little warning sign, she would always be sick. Grace could do everything in her power to make things easier, do everything right, but nothing was going to fix her brain. It's almost like Bipolar Disorder is a chronic illness or something.

After all this hopeful time, she had to accept it wasn't just that past Grace was gone, it was that the ease and sanity that came with her was dead, too.

Being the perfect good girl Grace just never will be enough. Not to make her healthy again. If she spends what's left of her life trying to find that, she'll always be disappointed.

While old Grace, sane Grace, is survived by a neater, hardened Grace, she will be missed. The late night homework and laughing sleepovers and baked goods for classmates and indomitable confidence in the things she loves most are gone.

All we have left is to stand tall and move forward.

It's all we've ever had.

I've always been in between life.
It's always somewhere over being
uncertain and certain,
optimistic and pessimistic,
and introverted or extroverted.

Despite all that,
there's one thing I'm sure of.
It is holding on to dear life,
going along through it.

I am nothing more than human,
but I am my own future.

Extroverted goes great with introverted.
Supposed to be extrovert in search of
beautiful, yet honourable girl, to pay
attention to. Even though I don't have

courage or a great body, I'll try to win
her over. It's showering with closed eyes,
searching for the faucet, hoping to pick
the right side, or maybe left. Waiting

for the water to drip on my soft, not
hairless skin. Will it be too hot, too cold
or just perfect? Then there's still shampoo
to worry about, better smell the bottle first.

Suddenly the water comes out, first dripping,
cold, then flowing, warm. Too much tension for me.

Introverted
Extroverted
Procrastinator
I'll figure it out later
Socially awkward
Fashion forward
Emotionally unstable
Pick a label
Depressed
But well dressed
Tired eyes
See the lies
High heels
Too many feels
I have to become
Emotionally numb
Cause I strive
To survive
Know your place
Put on your brave face
Let them label you
They haven't got a clue
Who you are
Beneath that scar
They notice the imperfections
On every section
Of your body that they pick apart
But they're blind to the beauty of your heart.

All this time
I have thrown around this label
My tendency to observe my surroundings
Searching for answers in every action, every move
I used to think I was a wallflower
A extroverted wallflower
who simultaneously was a social butterfly
but I am not this, I am not this at all  
I am a writer

My life has been molded
by the world of 15 minute increment agendas
and 150 character updates by the second.

My body has been pacified
by the world of liquid sugar satiation
and instant edible gratification.

My mind has been conditioned
by the world that favors extroverted personalities
and introverted abdomens and collarbones.

I live, move and breathe
in the world that is scared of freethinkers
and will not succeed in boxing me in.

In my world, I define my own worth.

Some of them are part hilarity, part shame...

The thing is, there are so many reasons why I shouldn't have worked that job...

I was between 16 + 17, overworked, super ADHD, brand new driver, horrible with directions (and these were the days of maps and phonebooks... >.>).

I was usually running late,
not really prepared,
costumed,
carrying things,
haphazard
and I had (and still have) plenty of issues doing standard issue human things...

there was this one time that I remember going up to East Side Marios at the time...
and again,
this is over 10 years ago....

dressed up as a large bird...
and now I'm a fairly large human as it is...
especially for a female around 5'10" and in highschool, I was around that height already.

With this head,
I clock in at a good 7"...
toting either balloons, flowers or some other gift...

I wander through this restaurant,
asking waitresses to direct me to my location.

I get there, do the song and dance thing...

and I'm pretty sure I totally slacked off most times and did 1/3 songs or whatever I was supposed to.

I can't remember if the rules were never told to me proper,
changed or if I just anxietied the **** out of the situation and failed to deliver.

After I was done and trying to make my way the hell out of there.

I'm extroverted,
but not a fan of people seeing me in costume,
touching me,
trying to meander through waves of people dressed as a bird..

and just a plethora of other things.

I preferred being safe in the shop and just tinkering away.

Anyhow, while I was trying to make my escape, a waitress came over and informed me that they had another birthday party and she asked if I would be so kind as to go and say hi to the other party.

Now, being the good little roman catholic school girl that I thought I was being raised to be (save for the glaring oxymoronic behaviour that I tended to exhibit in shame when nobody was paying attention to me...)

of course I would agree to say hi and make someone's day a bit better.

I made my way over there,
and as soon as I appeared she screamed at the top of her lungs,
sprung out of her chair and dashed over to me.

Her arms flailed and found themselves all over my person,
rubbing and molesting with a intoxicated fervour I had yet not been in receipt of at that tender age.

Now, don't get me wrong, I had molested and manhandled my share of unsuspecting, awkward nerds at the time in my amazonian haphazard ***** youthful mode...

but around that time, most thought that I was much too strange and dorky to engage with.

So luckily, most wouldn't be able to get near my bubble,
especially not to the extent and excitement that this woman was sporting.

I fumbled over my words and sputtered out a, "Uh-uhhh.... Happy birthday?"

To which the woman gleefully exclaimed, "Aaahhhaha! It's aa giiii~rrrl~"

and at this point,
in youthful mortification i was silent
a heavier set bald man let out a lecherous chuckle, "Uh hue hue hue.... my turn."

All I remember was bashful waving and me trying to make the quickest escape my chaotic form could.

Now, I don't even remember how long I held this job for,
because most of my memories of the position involve some sort of failure and folly...

so, I'm not sure if I made a clean break and if I heisted the additional awkwardness from another story and mashed them together,

however.... on my way out,
I remember somehow bashing into a waitress and having at least six glasses of beverage go all over me, her, the walls and floor and make a hell of a clamoring all about.

I remember being absolutely ready to expire by the time I made my way back to the van to change out of the confounded outfit that made my existence even more cumbersome.

I am pretty sure most of the joys of that job only come in the retelling of the incidents in how entirely horrible they were to experience first-hand.

I feel numb, stuck, trapped
My insecurities get worse each day
I miss my extroverted self
I don't know where I've gone?

I'm existing;  not living
I'm not unhappy, I am not sad
I'm apathetic : neither here nor there

No movement,  nothing changes
Yet my life, my home, myself ...
Have changed beyond recognition

I am using this nothingness to heal
Educate, restore, fix, mend
In the stillness, I find my soul
My brain refuses to acknowledge it

Mindset is in quandary,  undecided
Body is aging before my own eyes
Soul is vulnerable , yet open
Honesty is blunt, uncomfortable for some, but necessary

Old friends question and probe
New friends acquired along the road
Baggage weighs heavy
I can not put it down

These are the ramblings of the mentally unwell
Emotionally unstable, is my label
I wear it well: you really couldn't tell
Unless you are reading this

I'll pretend and disguise the panic in my eyes
Censor my language, no triggers spoken
Not to alarm, not to self harm
Just keep quiet, be good, continue to be misunderstood