This is not a woe is me post. I take full responsibility for the things I say and do as an adult. I just have deep wounds, and as those with such wounds and the entire psychology profession knows, it’s so hard to heal them and move on.
Continue reading “Decompression.”Author: Life With Interest
Back to Square 23.
Will you ever learn? No. But you can grow.
You’ve forgotten you’re a creaky old kettle wasting away on the stove. Boiling over. Boiled over.
Someone turned on the gas. High. You didn’t notice.
You were too busy trying not to crumble.
So here you are. Ashamed you’ve spilt. No. Flailed steaming liquids everywhere around you.
It was clearly a mistake. But what can you do when that fire’s going?
It isn’t until all that’s inside you has evaporated into steam, and you are left hollow, that you can make any sense of it.
But in time, too much time, you eventually learn to accept your archaic kettleness, cracks and all.
You realize you may not control the fire but you can subtly shift where your passion explodes.
You can cause havoc or create justice.
You must get in control of the magma inside. It’s powerful and impolitely poetic.
Trying to clean up your mess is futile.
Just dig deep and study your cracks and tilt at just the right angle. Be prepared to boil over. And accept you will always make steaming messes, so they might as well be productive ones.
Home.
The long goodbye to my first love continues. Goodbye to the walls which embraced me in my darkest times. The floors which captured my tears and laughter. The scenery that soothed me as I fell apart and puzzle pieces myself back together to survive another day.
Downstairs, the spaces which, since altered, once held me as I listened to my “The Little Mermaid” tape to capture the lyrics of “Part of Your World” pausing and rewinding every second (for the record it’s not pregnant women, sick of swimming, ready to stand), the same floor where I made a brilliant stop motion video about The Bluest Eye, the spot where I came home from school one day, having forgotten my key, and climbed through an unlocked window and fell face first into the game room, successfully entering, nonetheless. And I walk barefoot on the floors where countless games of War were played and Erector sets were erected in the best moments with my father, in happier times.
Continue reading “Home.”Motions.
Going about the motions from morning to midnight,
trying to silence the sensitivities that swing you over,
and instead march on, focus, task oriented, GSD, one
deliverable after another, wake up, get up, and go,
and then again it is night, my child crying, 4am, my
bones rattle with exhaustion and delicate temperament.
Maneuver through meticulous motions, machine,
marching on from moon fall through moon rise,
silence the sensitivities that swing you over and over.
Life is a tactical, a solvable equation, in and out,
a game of strategy, not wit, of disappearance::
that riddle is you, hidden behind thick metaphor.
And few even notice at all, which is the victory you seek,
in that storm shelter of your soul, surrendered there,
going about the motions from morning to midnight,
silencing the sensitivities that swing you over.
Turbulence.
I wish I was sleeping, or working, or doing something productive, but that’s impossible with the rough knocking of the window against my head in this nonstop turbulence. Since we took off, it has gotten really bad in its relentlessness, and it hasn’t let up now an hour or so into this flight.
Meanwhile, something smells funny in here as well. It always smells funny in economy… I can’t quite put my nose on what the smell is but at least I don’t want to. I bury my nose into my scratchy airline pillow and wish I brought perfume or some other such pleasantries to sniff.
Continue reading “Turbulence.”,
Commas are inherently erotic. In otherwise coherent forward momentum, your mind unwillingly submits, bound by forced pause, chained by assertive mark. Your inertia is held, back, ,back from gratification, that desire for completion, and completion is,
Protected: I can.
Stop.
She ran anxiously through a forest of overgrown trees that hadn’t been touched by another human in years. Thick foliage ripped her feet raw as they bled and painted lush verdant carpeting a morbid maroon. In the thick of thicket, surrounded by oak and pine, a lone stop sign stood, screaming its one purpose, “STOP!”
But she just kept running. She wasn’t sure where. The trees blocked the view of anything beyond and her feet were scraped to the bone, but she ran anyway in circles and squares and circles again.
There was, she later observed, a clear, paved path out of the forest, down the road, to town, where people laughed and played and drank and took comfortable shelter at night and in the storms. But, for whatever reason, she couldn’t see it. She refused to see it. Plenty watched this woman running in circles, her feet tattered, her clothes torn, her body aching, and questioned why she didn’t just step on to the path and head back into town.
She didn’t see it. The more she ran, the further blind she became to anything but trees and that stop sign, coming into view time and again, cutting through leaves, pinecones, and bits of broken and unbroken branches sprawling to the sky. She just kept running because that is all she knew how to do. And she hoped, without hope, that someday deep in that forest, there, in the prickled green, would be another pair of feet, freshly wounded, another set of eyes, seeking an exit but incapable of finding the obvious path out, and another pair of fingertips, reaching recklessly towards the branch-cut sky.
Instead she remained there, alone, revisiting the stop sign every few days and pondering its significance. “Why stop if there is no one else here,” she thought. “Why stop if I don’t even know the first thing about how to start.” She looked down at her battered feet, layered with old and fresh dirt and dried blood, and continued on, in circles, through the forest, running for the sake of staying in constant motion, hearing the laughter erupt from those in town, somewhere, nearby, and suffering from self-sourced infliction.
The forest isn’t real, the villagers knew. It was just a stop sign and a crazy woman circling it. She hadn’t any wounds on her feet, only deep in her heart, long ago pierced by something far more sinister than fabricated forest; her throbbing vessel, beating alive at her core, punctured prematurely, left open and raw, with a wanting wound, festering from infinite intervals of intellectual isolation.
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Alliterated.
Drowning in dysphoria, despondence, and daydream days,
fixated on feeling over function to find fortitude and focus,
mapping mixtapes and moonshine in my melancholy,
the entropy of eros erupts in its evolving evolution,
sentience surrenders to sleep starvation, silently,
as armored arteries act according to alliteration,
wallowing whimsically with weathered want.
Cracking Chrysalis.
We come into this world alone and we leave it alone. In between there is insatiable loneliness and the thought that perhaps if we surround ourselves with people, if we socialize and find love and family and friends we aren’t meant to be lonely.
But loneliness is not solved by surrounding yourself with people. I’m not sure how it’s solved, or if it’s meant to be. I binge on anything unhealthy to make myself feel whole. To forget the emptiness, momentarily. I long for connection but fail to find it meaningfully. Or I share too much and push others away.
I find the grittiness of humanity — interesting. Intriguing. Inspiring.
I don’t want to discuss what, I want to understand why.
Continue reading “Cracking Chrysalis.”
life with interest 