08:36 PM, Despondent

I don’t have the energy to write, to put the jumble of thoughts in my mind into words that make sense.

The scissors didn’t slip and cut my hand and I didn’t feel disappointed at the lack of the expected tinge of pain and blood; what scared me is the realization that there are times this occurrence has caused disappointment.

I’m sleeping more than 10 hrs/day and still wake up feeling tired and sleep-walk through my day.

Food doesn’t excite me, not even the thought of a well-made chicken steak with a side of mashed potatoes and steamed veggies in my favorite pub.

My work tires me out, unless it’s such that there’s no time in between my patients to actually remember myself; forgetting myself feels better than the other way around.

Not much interests me. Half-read novels, empty-other-than-the-title-slide presentations, piles of unpressed clothes line my week and as time goes on, they become further causes of stress.

My whiskey is beside me and my coke; but, I’m lacking the energy to make myself a peg and so, the dust collects- until the next Saturday night, until the next monthly holiday; until the next reason to down it with the unreasonable lump in my throat.

My life is, if I start ticking off boxes, pretty good. Things in their places and others will eventually fall into theirs. I have no reason to feel this way. That scares me too.  

Medication, as I would know, has side effects I’m not particularly fond of. I’ve worked hard for the weight I’ve lost and I’ve just started enjoying looking at myself in the mirror again. I’m already sleeping enough for two of me. I’m fucking up answers to simple questions and memory is slipping my mind.

But, my mind keeps going there…the knowledge available at my fingertips- how can I use it to better myself? How can I abuse it to feel better about myself?

I don’t miss the paradox there; searching for answers for a mind going wonky, using the mind going wonky is not ideal. But, I’m sleepy again and don’t have the energy to look beyond the wonky and meet the obvious.

So, the plan for tonight?

Maybe I’ll be able to convince my homunculus to lift a hand and pour myself a drink.

Maybe I’ll cry when I finish writing this- partly happy tears that I was able to write at all.

Maybe I’ll fall asleep to a rousing Ted talk about dreaming your dreams.

Or maybe I’ll just stare at the screen in my hand for a few more hours, until my eyelids grow heavy and drop, of their own volition, so I won’t have to make the effort of closing them myself.

And maybe…when I open them tomorrow, it’ll be to a better day?

Maybe…

*END*

Stasis

Sometimes when I’m lying on my bed, indulging in the extremely riveting task of staring at my ceiling, I wish it would just vanish.

And I’d be able to see the sky.

If it’s hot, I’d burn in the sun;

If it’s raining, I’d get drenched;

If it’s the elusive winter, I’d wait for the snow;

For then, I’d still be in touch with the world I’ve rejected in favour of the ceiling and its sole occupant- the ceiling fan.

For then, I’d still be reminded of the expanse of existence out there that I’ve abandoned in favour of my solitude.

I’d be given a chance to realize that the whole of the cosmos is infinite and while I am but a speck in its shadow- a speck still capable of movement…

A speck still capable of choice.

A speck still capable of moving towards the choice it made one day-

To live.

So, when I’m languishing instead of experiencing, and inertia is governing my neurotransmitters in much the same way as Putin is Russia, and even the emergency ounce of momentum I used to keep handy is playing hide and seek with my neuronal processes like Neville Longbottom’s toad, I wish my ceiling would vanish.

And I’d be lying under the sky, blasted by the elements, until the sun burns through my bed, the sleet pushes me to my feet and the chill forces me to run to keep my heart beating;

My time ticking;  

My life- living.

*END*

I’m Sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I didn’t know I still felt this way

I didn’t know I still had this feeling in me

I’m sorry for what I did

For the role I played in letting us go

I’m sorry

We were supposed to last

We were supposed to be forever

We cut cakes

We shared chocolates

We held hands and kissed cheeks

(or maybe not)

But, we certainly made promises

To be together

To be by each other

I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise

I’m sorry I let go

And I’m sorry I didn’t say sorry sooner

Or harder

Or enough

(Or maybe I didn’t mean it then?)

I still think of those days

I still miss you

I still find ways to blame you

I still miss you

I still feel hurt

I still feel sorry

I mostly feel sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

Do you hear me?

I’m so so so sorry…

 

If I pick up the phone,

Like old times…

Will you say hello again?

 

*END*

10:07 AM, In Flights of Fantasy

It’s like a spectrum.

On one side, I see a family- loving, cooperative, cohabiting in peace, navigating life together the best way they can. I can feel the warm glow of companionship spilling over from my imagination into my consciousness, filling me with longing for a fantasy in my head.

I don’t like that feeling- of longing for something that never was. I call myself silly and plow into reality, barrelling down the spectrum to its other end- into the comfortable embrace of fear.

What do I fear?

I fear to trust somebody enough to get into a relationship. I fear to believe in a fellow human who is as fallible as I am. I fear to invest in a reality which can turn unpredictable and twist me ragged any second. Because nothing’s permanent, is it? Everything falls apart eventually. Everything dies. How can I depend on something as mortal as mortality?

It’s a faulty thinking process; what is called, in parlance, maladaptive thinking.

“Depending on a fellow human will make me weak. After all, I can’t speak for their thoughts or actions or motivations. The only controls in my hand are mine. So, I trust only me. It makes no logical sense to trust or depend on what I can’t control, right.”

See, that’s maladaptive thinking. And a defence mechanism called controlling.

Either I control the variable or it doesn’t exist in my bubble. But, we can’t control people, can we? It’s not right- infringing into the personal space of others. So, people- this unpredictable variable called people- has no place in my world, in my well-insulated bubble.

But, why did my morning study session devolve into this long-winded psychobabble?

Apparently, I’m supposed to get married. Apparently, this is the age for it. But, I don’t feel ready.

My father asked a very valid question: When do you think you will be ready?

I had no answer. I don’t know when I’ll be ready because I don’t know when I’ll find the middle ground between the extremes of longing and fear.

And I don’t know who I should go to for advice… So, I wrote.

**

Paradise?

…You shatter the peace and challenge my fear
You calm the storm inside just so it can rage on
I want to feel you with me
By my side
On me, by my whim
In me, by my desire
No more lies tonight, not tonight, my love
Tonight we tell the truth that we never tell anymore
I’ll heal you with my voice
Comfort you with my heart beat
I’ll hold you close and love you with my mind
We were cold, we were heartless
We were selfish, we were scared
We were liars in the world, but never of the world
We laughed over our tears and pretended to never be hurt
We kept saying we were fine even while throwing ourselves into the abyss
We put up a facade for the world and bled in places it could never see
We danced to its tunes barefoot and played its games naked
Yes, let’s break that paradise down where we say we are happy and turn away to hide our tears
Where we cheat, lie and hide and hold each other at an arm’s distance.
Let’s break down the paradise that’s nothing more than an illusion
Carefully maintained by our fears, insecurities and tears.
To you and me, rulers of the old paradise, let there be no more rules
I’ll accept your truth just as I’ll accept your lie
I’ll accept all of you and everything of you
I’ll build this new paradise for you
For me
For that one day, when we escape…

Narcissist

He’s like me. I think that’s why I’m into him. That’s why I couldn’t get him off my mind. It nearly drove me crazy, you know; the desire to spend more time with him, to get to know him in and out. But, he’s like me. So of course, like I expected, he didn’t contact me for a week. He didn’t contact me until he wanted a shag.

That was okay with me. I knew when I replied to his message the first time, what I was getting myself into. A one-night stand, a little bit of fun keeping it a secret and that’s it. We weren’t looking for a relationship; neither of us.

In fact, I’m still not looking for a relationship. Heavens! That would be disastrous. My approach or obsession, if I may say, is of the more clinical type. I want to get under his skin and find out what makes him tick. I want to push him and pull him until he’s tired and I’m tired. I want to poke him until he bleeds and then, repeat that until he bleeds more.

Hmm…reading what I wrote might make you wonder if I hate myself. I don’t. I’m just fascinated with myself. Nothing greatly special about me; I guess I’m the easiest lab rat available to myself. It’s easy to put myself under the microscope rather than interact with humanity. But, this find- somebody like me! I could call it an obsession, but really, it should be narcissism.

However, since he’s like me- I know what’s going to happen. He will keep me on the hook, at his whims and fancies and one day, he’ll get bored of even that and he’ll forget my existence. So will I, of course, but, it might take a little effort from my side in this case. It won’t be as natural as it usually is.

It’s interesting being on the other side. My pride keeps getting rents and knitting itself back together. Yes, it’s all very chaotic, very messy and very, very interesting.

 

*END*

Why Aren’t You?

You useless person,

There are so many beautiful things here

Why aren’t you?

 

I don’t know who I’m talking to

A stranger in the future that I might miss

A friend in the present that I do miss

I don’t know who should be here;

Who am I talking to?

 

I go from place to place

Revelling in my own company

But, the beer I ordered feels alone

Without a companion on the other side

I roam from bookstore to bookstore

Losing myself among the bundles of old and new

Buying too much, thinking too little

Maybe you should have been here

To hold me back

 

I still don’t know who I am talking to

Who could give me company in a bar

Companionship in a bookstore

I’m talking maybe to that random stranger

Who one day may not be so random

Or so strange

 

Is it weird to wish to be alone?

But, sometimes miss humanity?

Is it weird to miss something there never was?

Is it weird to miss what might be?

My feelings seem to have gotten ahead of themselves

Popping up from a place that doesn’t yet,

Exist.

 

You useless person

There’s so many beautiful things here…

Why aren’t you?

 

But it’d better if I ask

Who aren’t you?

Who are you?

 

*END*