The mind. Wrapping around itself. The existence of being surrounded by being. An ocean containing a river. Already underwater. Who’s streams flow together and a passerby would not know where the river started and the ocean ended except that the ever present current would drag you in faster than you could begin to ask the question, “can I tell which water is more dangerous?” The ocean. The mind. Stuck in obedience to the rules self created. New rules not yet rewritten in body or soul.
One would say to try again.
We could say it’s a forever failed plan. To rewrite. To paint over the canvas, to delete the file, to white wash the stained walls, to pack up and move on, to be put in witness protection… from our trauma and past to forget “the plan” by learning again. Who we are. Who we now realize we were always meant to be.
Click. Unlock. Scroll. Lock. Notifications? Ah. Just one. Good though. Obsession? It’s not as bad as some though. I’m not alcoholic. I don’t do drugs. It’s not the same to OD on technology. I have other problems. deeper. This is just a symptom of something beyond my control. Do any of us really have control? Click. Unlock. Scroll. Lock. Battery low. Searching to recharge. It’s not as simple for me. No universal plug. No standard volts. I don’t just take electricity. It’s hard work to rest. It’s difficult to step back, stop, and breathe. The things I need a break from are the things sustaining me. An endless cycle of repetition. Spirals down. Spirals within to myself. Click. Unlock. A brief world of escape. Did you like my photo? 65 people saw this. Vote on this little poll. Showing the authentic self that I formed and that I like. The quirky silly dramatic purple lipstick wearing person. Scroll. Scroll. Lock. I don’t show you the crying in my car or alone walking my dog at night. Pacing in my tiny room when I have too much energy. The useless shit I buy because I need it in the moment. The binge eating away the emotions I don’t want. The hours I keep myself awake feeling sad. The over sexualized thoughts that come whenever they feel like. Shortness of breath like an asthma attack all invented by the anxieties of my head. The days I literally put “get out of bed, leave room, use bathroom” as individual checks on my todo list.
It’s much too much to share.
Too dark of a secret to keep.
I share bits with some and bits with others.
I don’t exist as fully human to any one person.
I’m layers of fake personalities.
Layers of funny and sad stories.
Layers of certain emotions and circumstances.
And when I start to show the real me
And you leave.
You don’t even have to really leave.
You can still be there and still care.
You can still love me and hold my hand.
You can still be physically present in my life.
But there are days my anxieties take up all room inside my head.
The cloud of depression is less like a dense fog and more like volcano smoke and ash suffocating me.
Hypomania leaves no room for anyone but myself. I’m pretty awesome after all.
Here we are.
Scrolling as unhealthy obsession.
A coping mechanism.
All I have for sanity.
Covering the hole that would show what is really left of me.
Hint: I’m worn out and empty.
Fuck this feeling. I wanna write poems on cheap paper with a bad pen and scribbled half cursive and mispelled words. Nothing is real without my definition of Reality and reality is not including me without some higher being currently. Coating emotions with food and fears with sleep. Hours wasted on thoughts running alone. Thoughts stifled by absorbing media as was intended by the providers but perhaps not the makers. This version of myself self prescribed as okay or bad or good or something. Typically a thing to change. Do I make sense? Can one understand me? Can I make a living on art and creativity or is art and creativity in spite of my living? Caused by my living? If I was freely roaming could I freely create? Would I hate would I dissipate? To reply. To do. To think. To create. To exist. Complicated. Like a facebook definition of a relationship of a high school student who thinks they are practically engaged to the dude they once locked eyes with in a lecture. “It’s complicated” No set reality. No set definition. Which is itself the definition. The reality. A paradox we only dream up to make sense of things with. All is nothing. Nothing is all.
I hope this poem makes you feel things. I just wrote it because I needed to stop.
Perceptions twisted. A life conflicted. A word convicted of something it never was meant to be. Surface rising. Questions surprising. A love compromising to be where it’s “supposed” to be. Chaos turned sorrow. Breath just borrowed. Waiting for tomorrow in hopes it will be what it should be.
A description of darkness seems too dark in the light. A perfect picture of light is too bright in the darkness. The answer seems not enough with questions still lingering. The questions seem too simple when the answer is given.
Reality on the surface seems to pull everything together. Once things are realized the known becomes unknown. In life we are unable to comprehend death. In death are we able to comprehend life?