3 weeks, that's all it takes,
      how many necessary things could have
been said, but weren't...
    i could have written to my local m.p.,
or say - an imaginary letter to
Lorca, like Jack Spicer -
     instead, i wrote a few pieces of
verbal-diarrhea - sheer frustration -
      how debasing i sometimes see myself
becoming, all this talk of self-censorship,
     it's this ominous shadow of some third
party sources... the more you write
it seems, the more you start fearing
in the existence of that famous chestnut
known as writer's block...
                         it's such a fear that it's
impossible to call it irrational,
a tiny fear, a phobia, fear without a narrative...
so you end up becoming debasing for a while:
thankfully: there's nothing in concreto
about it...
                    you begin almost in trance
blurting out words to no civilised purpose -
  just to go beyond the rust and stiffness of
3 weeks sober, as if starved from the world:
because your grandparents don't have an internet
connection...
      and you return from a place where
you have to time to read books, and be content
at being fed by a television set...
                rather than having to feed
the computer and that amassing of knowledge
and shared experience...
      a digital detox they call it...
   i call it a double-whammy detox... and strange
how doable it is: it doesn't require
a rehab...    or some guru telling you
       that you have to block out thoughts
immersed to the internet...
                    but then again, is it about that?
all i can claim to say is that:
    the internet can really become a cul de sac...
i'd feign to believe that anyone with
   it can read a novel these days...
                       i know i can't -
     in the most ordinary circumstances -
                     a complete shut-down can provide
enough furniture to be so less itchy
and nagging to touch...
                               and it wasn't even a case
of a self-imposed hiatus...
                    don't know what it actually meant
other than an immersion in: what
life was like in the 20th century...
                              and on that touchy subject of
certain words being treated as if said
by children and deserving the scorn from an elder...
well sure, would that give us many more
graces to: write in the fxxx?   and if i actually did -
if only the english language used some sort of
orthographic, but it can't: since it has no diacritical
markings...
    the aesthetic is so different in Poland...
you don't censor certain words so might think you're
talking roses and adorable puppies for some
grand social project...
       there's a graffiti joke in Poland...
              and there about four different variations
of the same word (as it sounds) -
huj                         hój
             chuj                                and chój...
  there are no others... but there's only one accepted
spelling of the word: given the orthographic convention...
and if this word is seen on walls
   without the correct orthography, it's a good joke...
  (it's the first spelling of the word that's correct,
if you want to know)...
     what i can't understand is creating these excessive
emotional associations with words,
not sentences that lead to a fuller meaning:
but isolated words...
                         it's a simple bewilderment that
using such words, for the sake of using them, might
suddenly lead toward some antagonism of
an ethnicity -
                                 it's black on white -
there are no hues of words... but when it's used
from fear of a writer's block, and it has to be used,
once again: not in concreto...
                        then it's again, used like i might
throw everything into grammatical categorisation of
words, and get back a lesson in grammar...
    that's 3 weeks without a keyboard - you're
bound to vent out some frustration...
                    at least there's an antidote to it,
on saturday i experienced zenith of the frustration,
until it dwindled away, overnight...
                             rarely do you see a review of a poetry
book in english newspapers...
   perhaps the guardian, but in the times?
               once in a blue moon...
           the review: if jeremy corbyn wrote poems...
    for almost a whole evening i was experiencing this
sort of: debilitating paralysis, debilitating because it
was wholly mental... i equated reading this review
with an experience of: ethical monopoly of vocab...
    and it really does exist... its not a question of political
correctness, but a case of ethics:
                  could i use the word nxxxer or not?
    can it really be so scary to see that correct spelling?
and what if i wrote about the river Niger, because
i felt like it... or took to the fancy of a trip to Nigeria?
       boy, Niagara falls must be stunning to look at too!
i don't understand that privacy can be so usurped,
so wrangled out one's on comfort...
    so we have our closet racists and closet intellectuals
(who i call the bearded white boys
                 in chequered shirts and torn jeans) -
    but in a fit of personal transitioning, are we really
about to censor each other, and on what ground?
      yes, i have a ku klux **** hood in my closet
and i'm about to shout ye ha! on a lynch frenzy...
      it's a word said out of context with a historical content
still ascribed to it... if this word were taken into
an urban environment: it would be an epitome of
what once was used with the words *******...
         i'm not concerned with the word historically...
       historically speaking: it's urban now...
                               it can literally mean: thick-as-night...
and can you start to begin finalising such
nano experiences in life...
                           some people get to sky-dive,
or hunt lions on safaris...
                                i'm stuck with a wasted evening
duped into thinking this out:
  like so horror minority report, said the word:
predestined to do the most god-awful evil...
                       or like i said the word:
and that's equivalent to not washing my mouth for
2 weeks... 2 weeks spent on a diet of onions,
garlic and raw beef...
                           it's this absurdity that has nothing
fancy about it, this could not be written by
Albert Camus... it's too worm-like absurd...
                 i don't whether to laugh or cry, or tell you
how i had to find a counter-frustration...
but i did, the review of a poetry book in a saturday newspaper...
philip collins' take on unreconciled - poems 1991 - 2013
   by michel houellebecq...
                               i'm guessing the actual book
would make me feel less frictive than the reviewer's take on it...
   such this huge ball of fungus dropped into
my cranium and started to cannibalise itself with
digestive juices of nihilism... thankfully reviews like this
would spur me on and make me want to read such a book...
just to get the antithesis (if that's correct word to use)...
   to me, it sounds like a book
that's supposed to oppose the european use of the haiku...
   for me not all haikus are philosophical...
     although i know they're intended as such...
personally, i think that the art behind the haiku is
more than the actual haiku...
    say, someone who invented this medium,
yes, an easterner would probably write 20 haikus in
a period of 20 years...
     writing too many haikus (usually done by westerners)
is precisely the opposite of the art-form...
      how can a haiku be written without a year-long
restraint, and when finally the pressure is too much:
you get ''so little''?
                      well sure, i can write a haiku any moment
i can... but i'd have to have a gnat's worth of
consciousness to write one without having meditated for
a year...
                we europeans can at least write
absurd excerpts from our rigid lives...
                        and houellebecq does that -
   we live in these snappy narcissistic observations taken
from the world we have so made systematic -
    and i guess reason is a big tender dog -
given that unreason is a ******* chiwawa that
constantly keeps barking... or any other small dog
for that matter...       well: once again -
who told these people who review poetry books that
poetry is an Ikea manual?
                               lack of imagination, i'd say...
   and i'll say that about any other liar out there who
can say that visualising poems is easy -
     modern art can be seen as pretentious ******* -
but then what can you verbalise about it is the whole trick...
   just asking, because i was thinking about when
that famous school of fine art in Florence is going to
reopen, and why no one bothered to remember the techniques
using oil on canvas...
                 evidently something is up in the zeitgeist -
    i'm guessing we'll not see a **** study by edward calvet
any time soon... and it'll remain so, for quiete some time -
something is being revised - i'd call all modern art
by the movement: revisionism -
                      well: the dark ages were revising something -
everything's crude once more...
                  as came with the over-exposure to our
******... and did i say there's something wrong with that?
but evidently seeing too much fucky-fucky
    has created jelly in the eyes of artists who have to
go back to basics... it's like artists are looking for words...
they want to return to a dialogue of the reneissance...
    or at least it sounds like that... oh no, not from them:
from the people that have a critical eye on the matter:
the intellectuals... i see it as a hope for coming back to
dialogue... if you can't return to a dialogue over
a very simple modern canvas... there's no point
talking about the greater intricacies...
                             that leave you speechless -
  i mean: what's the point of talking about a mona lisa
when you can enjoy a joke asking whether
the devil didn't have his hand up her skirt?
       or the ecstasy of st. theresa... what's there to talk about?
i look at that statue and just want to get a hard-on...
but first i guess i have to rediscover a dialogue
with what the current times prescribe me...
and these really are works of prescription... there's no
point look into pharmacology's list of prescriptions...
   as going about saying it's all a load of *******,
leads to the first step toward modern alienation...
       if darwinism can be a humanism, a study of
the human... i can only give it a motto:
there's a reason behind everything... there's a reason
snakes don't have eyelids...
                              or that giraffes look funny...
             or that camels are the most vile mammals
to walk this earth...
                       personally i

i watch the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i remember how, at 2 milliseconds past 1400 hours, just 5 hours earlier, i was cradling you in bed
it was warm and we were interlocked and you looked heavenly
the glow of the sunshine a halo around a face full of sleep and too beautiful even for poetry.
i try to verbalise you, try to write you down to make your existence more fathomable –
i cannot.
there are no words for a heart that beats honey through soft-skinned veins,  that swirls around your mouth like saliva and you taste so **** sweet.
i told my doctor i have a sweet tooth, what i meant was i am addicted to you; what i meant was i can’t stop waking up in the middle of the night to fix the cravings i have when you aren’t there.
what i meant was, sometimes i sleep walk, find myself at
platform number 5 of the same station i left you at hours before hoping that some sweet fragrance of you still lingers.
i watched the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i watched the train move away in slow motion.
i watched your face until i couldn’t see it anymore and i have never felt longing like it. suddenly i felt like a lost kid at the supermarket trying to find their parent and i wanted to scream for you to come back because although this train moved in slow motion i swear 2 milliseconds passed and you were gone.
i tried not to blink because i didn’t want to miss a single moment.
i sent you “i love you” through a screen that is too familiar to me now and felt the itch of my craving against my spine –
i will wait for you.
i replay the last kiss in my head; it was probably our seventieth goodbye kiss because each one didn’t encompass all the love we needed to express before the train departed and i taste honey.
i cannot make your existence more fathomable because that would mean to understand you and in all your complexity, i never want to stop learning –
so please,
allow me to explore your mind in every neurotransmitter, in every dopamine dosage, in every fight or flight reaction; allow me to explore what it is to be you and let me write you into every poem i ever produce, let me hallucinate you into every city street, cast your reflection in every shop window, replace every tin of beans with jars of honey and settle like dust on my lips –
i will wait for you.
every day, i wait for you.

What's the point
In wasting time and wasting ink
When I can't verbalise the thoughts I think?

That night with you,
I learned the secret of it all.
The secret of love and how to fall.

In case you wonder
How you ever will know,
Spend time in silence and love should grow.

For we shared a glance,
A glance that pitifully pleaded.
And with that we knew that no words were needed.

Like so many of us, surrounded by binaries and cold concrete,
he finds it hard to say what he feels, and I found it hard
to understand, for a while, that he loved me just as I did him,
when he never vocalised his feelings completely, and I did.
It took me some time to realise he shows them instead, and maybe
that is all the more eloquent than anything I could ever
materialise on a piece of paper filled with smeared ink.
His love manifests itself in lingering gazes and the lightest touch,
in private smiles and the softening of his eyes when I laugh.
Like a child resorts to pointing at things they cannot name,
he ends up holding close what he cannot verbalise he needs.

- “You make me happy,” I tell him. He looks vulnerable and smiles. c.s.

Who would know that a pause would lead to this,
One moment, when a second spoke volumes,
One moment that led to a world of possibilities,
Imagined at first but then becoming real.
It wasn't a planned out thing it just sort of crept up,
We noticed the similarities, the often shared thoughts
The reassuring touch.
I didn't know you but I knew you, if you know what I mean,
Some fated, spiritual, psychic link up had occurred to me,  it seems.
After a time we were daring to verbalise this 'thing',
We both agreed that it was there
Something we couldn't name.
What I came to realise was, every connection was a log,
The logs grew into a pile and began to stack right up.
The eyes meeting, a special smile, a knowing glance or word,
Became the petrol on the wooden pyre,  just waiting to be burned.
The summer came and we'd moved on to a braver riskier stance,
You kissed me for the first time,
I almost missed the chance to kiss you back,
My heart was pounding, so scared of being caught,
That was the moment when, the match came out of its box.
The next time we kissed it was long and slow and
The match was struck and the fire was ablaze.


Then I had a tragedy, the life changing event of death,
The sort that brings you down, to nothing that you were.
Shattering in its relationship to life as I knew it.
I still thought about you even then,
I thought the fire was sure to go out,
The momentum had been deflated,
But in my grief you still held my hand and listened.


For several months I was up and down but still you were there.
Suddenly you were in my thoughts in a far more intimate way.
We began to explore and found we shared explosive ideas
Of a sensual side we both knew and understood.
The depth of that feeling was the strongest I'd even known
So it inched a long until we'd planned, a consummation date.
We went away to the seaside, we walked and talked and laughed,
We ate together and played together until the night drew in.
The night was filled with pleasure, that lasted for hours at a time.
A time when I was yours and you were mine and, we both woke up together.
The day came when I had to leave and I realised that this could also be the end.
The tears I couldn't help pouring from my eyes at the thought of you not there.
I felt a profound sense of loss, like someone had taken away
The only thing that mattered to me in the cracked world I had made.


Was this it, was this the peak, was it now all downhill.
We'd never have the chance again to be this free and
The snatched moments we had before,
Could never really compensate, for that time down by the shore.
I spoke to you that night and heard the tears in your voice,
It made me cry again, I knew then I couldn't let you go
Not like that, not now, I realised I had fallen in love.
It's true it has not been the same since we came back,
but a deeper understanding stands
That this is not a throwaway thing,
that should be full of guilt and shame.
But life it is a joker, though seldom is it funny,
Everything has its price, it's what you're prepared to gamble.
I can only make that choice for me and yours will come with time,
The reason I say that is, because you're not really mine.

I'm sad
and it's okay
I'm anxious
and it's okay

we need to verbalise
what we really feel
because it's okay

you're broken
and it's okay
you're shattered
and it's okay

you're hurt?
verbalise it
'cause it's okay

we don't need to
pretend for anyone
'cause even though we need others
self-help must come first

So many questions
I do not dare verbalise
Fearful I'm frozen.

I am a distract yourself from the problem instead of facing things kind of person
I am a ‘the problem’ doesn’t exist unless you think about it person
I am a scared to be alone with their thoughts kind of person
I am the maybe it will just go away kind of person
I am the we can deal with it all another day kind of person
But the lie awake at night not being able to think of anything else kind of person
I am afraid to cry
Afraid to feel
Afraid to tell anyone anything that might make me slightly vulnerable
I can’t procrastinate but I can’t do it right now kind of person
I am the think of all the people you will disappoint kind of person
I am the kind of person where you think about me and realise you actually know nothing about who I am
My secrets
My dreams
My aspirations
I am the don’t tell anyone otherwise you’ll jinx it kind of person
I am the obsessive
I am kind (out loud)
I have emotions that are far to complex to verbalise or comprehend
My weakness is caring
My weakness is not wanting to upset anyone
And I know that sounds like a strength but it internally destroys me when someone says something wrong and I physically can’t open my mouth to verbally respond
And I try my best but its when I’m alone with my thoughts it hurts the most
When I realise there is no podcast, no movie, no Tv show or book to distract me from the inevitable
And you’re probably wondering what the inevitable is
But I don’t know

And that’s what scares me
That’s what keeps me up at night
Maybe a fear of failure
Maybe a build up of all those thoughts I’ve procrastinated thinking about
Maybe all those tears I should probably cry
But I can’t
No because then I’m weak
No because then someone can manipulate me
No because then I show that I’m not strong 100% of the time.
Even when I’m alone
And I don’t know why because I think people that can cry are brave I see their vulnerability as a strength because only the toughest don’t care what people think of them even at their weakest.
Plus crying is beautiful
And feeling is too
Because sadness hurts but happiness is ecstasy
And you can’t truly feel one without feeling the other
I am the fix your problems yourself kind of person
I am the don’t be a liability kind of person
I am the don’t weigh people down with your thoughts kind of person  
I have no idea but every idea of who I am as a person

Why do I have to fight,
Painfully make my point
Bruising flesh, drawing blood,
Cracking heads to prove I’m right.


Why do I have to lose;
My dignity, the ability to
Verbalise, the anger that I feel.


I impose my will; threatening
Shouting, my face a mask
Tribal headpiece, worn
For my battle dance.


Adrenalin pumps, muscles start
To fuel, from my thumping heart.
Red rage clouds my eyes,
Blocking out pain, fight or flight.


My opponent falls, injured, shocked,
By an anger so powerful
That my body is consumed,
With the impact of my exploding mood.

My memory fails me not
It was no hallucination, and nostalgia indeed is a filthy liar which paints pictures prettier than their reality—but I remember this just as clearly as it occurred:

On a warm Autumn night, I laid beside the moon
He rested the back of his head on my stomach and I ran my fingers through his hair, nothing but the sound of a soft melody and the waves of the sea gently caressing the sand beneath us humming through the air
I had traveled a distance to see you, to feel you, to touch you—and my Lord, was I taken aback by the beauty you radiated at hand

On a warm Autumn night, the moon and I laid atop one another and stared at the darkness of the sky
The only light that surrounded us that night, my love, was emitted by you. But you were too mesmerised by a fallen star—or in our case, two—to notice how mesmerised I had been by you
The earth, the sand, and the wind hugged us, but I swear we were no longer a part of this world
In an enclosed, far-off dimension, I got to touch the moon
I was hugged, kissed and loved by the moon, and no human will have ever known how beautiful you truly are the way I now do

On a warm Autumn night, your lips brushed against mine, and I felt my heart sink to the pit of my stomach
I felt my skin grow warmer, I felt my soul entwine with yours
Oh how they’d envy these lips of mine, if only they knew
How can I verbalise the insanity of being held by you?
The morality—or lack, thereof—of purloining you?
Not mine to take but I shan’t withhold this passion surging through me—through us—through our tangled bodies, and oh Lord I had begun falling...

On a warm Autumn night, the universe froze for a mere second, and stars fell for a couple seconds longer
A spliff hung between your parted lips and the tide spoke to me in a hushed whisper
And I looked into your soul through those bewitching eyes of yours, and nobody else existed
And on that autumn night, in those seconds, like the season: I began to fall.

You don't give too much away
but that's ok
as I read between the lines
of what you do and do not say
slowly learning your ways
you tell me more in your silence
your pauses are like diamonds.

I remember every word you never said
every thought I ever had
every measured sigh
every repeated question without reply
I don't ask to receive
they mask what I need
my real quest is to achieve
a wordless answer
as your silence is golden.

The worthless cancer
a predatory disease
I know how much you fight
and yet never loose sight
of what's true and right
you simply amaze me
that even though I'm not with you
you're all that I can see
a vision of beauty
your pixie like smile
that nothing can defile
to your pixelated skin
viewed on a screen
with more beauty laid within.

Where as I feel the need to verbalise every thought
that enters my head
even the ones that make me look bad
reveal every feeling
so I'm completely honest in my dealing
OK, maybe not everything
I wouldn't want to scare you
with the thoughts that I think
I filter out my anxieties and only tell what is true
a direct link from my heart straight through
my racing thoughts are not what's important
its my pacing heart shaped *****
to which I have given you the keys
an instrument that you play
as you're a musician with such ease
with the words you do not say.

I talk to you in metaphors, and you wonder what’s wrong with me.
You wonder how the transition has been so rapid.
I tell you,
“Storms, humans. Humans, storms.
They‘re both synonymous.”
You stare at me, clueless, not getting the inside vibe or the feeling.
But you try.
Standing right 7 inches away, I see your helpless soul trying to unfurl and entangle all it senses again and again,
I see you try to figure out what I mean.
But I fail you, each time.
Because, I can’t let you know what any metaphor I verbalise, could ever mean.
“I meant nothing, stupid”
I laugh and tell you.
You stare right into my eyes. You’re not smiling. But you are.
You’re not grieving. But you are.
I stare right back at you, agreeing to what your eyes are saying.
“We’ve lost each other.” I hear this heavy bang onto my head,
And then,
I feel it.
I feel the word ***** arising.
I feel the thousand heavy words ever felt unsaid, violently trying to break out.
The stacked memories make me twitch, hard and brutal.
The incessant craving to hold you back and make you stay, this time at least, takes over.
Eye lids start to feel heavy and gradually, drop as I’m filled with remorse and frailty.
My hands tremble along with my feet, and descend, busted.
And I realise, that despite all the hundred times I’ve tried to convince myself that you would no longer matter, I still ache for you.
And suddenly, my entire being feels tired, once and all over again.

I miss you so much. I know I’m not supposed to. Im not supposed to verbalise it.
I’m supposed to be on top of the world right now. But I miss you. So much it hurts. Still.
I’m not even supposed to write this.
Maybe I should just delete everything and start again writing where you’ll never find me. That would be best for you, right. Best for me too.
I broke.
I’m broken.
I saw a psychic. A proper one. She saw right through me. She saw you. She knew us. She knew everything about me. Everything. Down to the last detail. Warts and all. It was the most uncomfortable feeling I’ve ever had. Everything I’ve hidden laid bare.
She said we shared a past life. She knew how intense we were. She knew it all. Scarily so.
I should really let you go.
I’m trying.
I’ve been meditating and working through my energy blockages. It’s brought up so many memories that I’d repressed. Dreams too. Of us.

Just for the record. I don’t expect a reply. I don’t want one.  I don’t write these for you. It’s my therapy.
Maybe I should just disappear again. Delete my account and start a fresh. I think you’d breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t blame you.
**

It doesn't matter
if you're better (off)
than me,

you see
we equalise
when we verbalise
and a balance is struck.

Luck
may be a factor
or it may be made
in a factory
for people like you
and me
and that doesn't matter
either.

The Torrap II of II
I quite enjoyed this peachy fruit
And rested a while
The sun was shining
And there was a cocophany
Of a myriad sounds
Echoing from the forest below me
And it was then
That a net flew over me
And around me
I was trapped
I flapped in a panic
And swore repeatedly
As i was now deeply distressed
And also wondering
How on earth
I was going to return to my world
And more importantly
To myself
Weeks drifted past
As i was passed around
From pillar to post
And aware
That at some point
I was at sea
I heard a variety of tongues spoken
And met some other parrots
But none like me
Although i was aware
I'd lost the ability
To verbalise properly
I eventually ended up
In a shop window
And to my surprise
And amazement
My partner came into the shop
And purchased me
Took me home
And put me into the very cage
That i'd had my strange transmogrification in
I tried talking to her
To try to explain
That it was me
But my power of speech
Had abandoned me
And all i could do was squawk
Or repeat
"Whose a pretty polly!"
And other A typical inanities
It was then
That i saw
My partner
Had found someone else
I lost my appetite
And wished
I could at least
Return to mirror world again

by Jemia

I am changing.
But the idea of me that I want to put out into the world isn’t.
Who I want to be and the parts of myself that I don’t like are conflicting.
I stand firm on foundations that feel crumbly at the fact my morals feel proud.
I worry that I think too much about what others think.
Other times I worry I don’t think enough about that at all.
I’m scared that if I’m honest about how I feel I’ll be met with judgement.
For no real reason, other than what I feel is anxiety.
My feelings have no solid ground, so of course they are easy to judge.
Does that really mean that they are judging me though?
By that logic, are my morals really mine or just my anxieties of what people will think?
The few things I used to take pride in being, I might not be anymore.
So who am I?
Will the people who loved me then, love me now?
Anxiety is a feral hungry beast.
Pacing and pattering through my veins.
Thumping and crashing in my heart like a misplaced 808.
“I’m really not an anxious person.”
Shakily fall from between my lips, reluctantly.
As I realise, I’m anxious to even admit that im anxious.
Am I supposed to have life figured out in my almost mid twenties?
Probably not.
Do I feel like I should have a vague sense of direction about it?
Maybe.
Although I’m battling with the idea that no one ever really knows what they want to do and people just get stuck.
So maybe I’m the lucky free thinker.
Or maybe I’m the delusional directionless unemployed rambler that people avoid at pubs.
Good job I avoid pubs.
I thought I was a powerful, political, before my time, feminist.
Who was just “too awake for the world before me”.
Miserable because my eyes are open too wide, that sort of thing.
Identifying as a realist.
But maybe, just maybe, I’m just a miserable old *******.
Creaky kneed, bleak thoughted.
I never used to think that much.
Well I did, I just never categorised myself as an overthinker.
I was wrong.
I just overthought about irrelevant things, out of my control.
Unimportant to spiral over.
Now that I and the people I love are centre to my anxious internal ramblings, i realise just how wrong.
I thought growing up would entail control of your mind.
Coping mechanisms.
Maybe growing up is realising coping is just getting on with it.
That prospect has never sat right with me.
“Queen of holding on to things” my mother often refers to me as.
Hoping to god I’ll learn to one day “park”, as she would say, just one of the things that make me miserable.
On any of the number of days I choose to let it pop back up.
Which would feel like everyday.
If you catch me on a “everything is bothering me day” I’d tell you I’m playing whack a mole with everything bad that’s ever happened in my life.
And although I know how it goes, I lose every time.
Maybe that’s because I’m so dedicated to my hobby.
Not a healthy one, I have none of those.
I’m referring to my insane ability to play basketball with chucking my feelings into my **** it bucket.
Until of course I realise that the **** it bucket isn’t looking so **** it anymore.
When you’ve felt so much for so long does contentness ever feel less like emptiness?
Does the peace ever get quieter?
Do the problems get realer or do we just stop creating them?
The questions I’d have asked myself a decade ago take a soul-wrenchingly, starkly, different tone.
So am I ungrateful?
Am I ungrateful that my biggest problem is anxiety?
My biggest problem is fake problems.
How 13 year old me would laugh in my face and spit venom with the tone.
I went through so much to get to where I am now.
To feel like I cheated?
Like I somehow don’t deserve it?
Not to say I earned it, but why would I deserve it less than anyone else?
I am aware.
I always have been.
I see the flaws in my thinking
The excruciatingly humane flaws in my self.
People fault me on seeing every one of their flaws, and pointing it out.
But how do I stop thinking them?
“Being aware is the first step.”
Yes.
Everyone finishes there.
Is there a second step?
Me and a few other million people are wondering.
Nothing else in life is like that.
You’re given an equation.
It’s explained, you get an answer.
It’s right, or it’s wrong.
Mentally we are left exhausting all the options.
Flaw after flaw, fault after fault, lapse after lapse.
For what?
No closer to answers just an opportunity to do it wrong differently next time.
Exhausted from thinking
The thoughts are chaotic like 5 point round abouts.
I am terrified to verbalise them.
I don’t know what I want.
Being heard isn’t enough anymore.
I don’t want solutions.
What are we left with?
Nothing practical.
Just a wish and a dream of one day feeling differently.
Being content with being content.
Accepting serenity as peace, not a moment to be ruined.
There is a paradise out there, I just haven’t met her and neither has anyone I know.
Does that make me sound like a believer?
Like actualisation is tiered with heaven?
As I get older, the more I realise that it just might be exactly that, for atheists.
Try as you might, I don’t believe it’s possible in life.
I’m upset that in my realism and internalised honesty, that I forced my brain to block out so much of my life.
I focused on the negative things and considered myself to be being true to history and my past.
Remembering is important.
Yes.
I wish I remembered the name of my favourite song on the dance mat.
Not how upset I was when I found out it had been thrown away.
I wish instead of getting so hung up on how people left, why people left or how terrible they are for leaving, that I remembered how good it was to know them.
I’m worried that my brain is not who I want it to be.
I’m scared that everything I hate in this word is an externalisation of everything I hate in myself.
I’m anxious that all of my darkest thoughts, are the truest testament to who I am as a person.