07.27.18

You are not timeless.
You are relevant.
Everything that everyone does is pertinent.
I know.
I know this.
Empiricism.
The passage of time.
Days and months and years.
I understand.
Cells and protons and electrons and choices.
I understand how it works.
I am real, I see things and I comprehend them.
Within the most basic levels of energy, things exist. Infallibly.
We’re all made from stardust and we function…
Humans are complex organisms. Humans are individual.
Humans are flawed.
Mentally and biologically no two humans function the exact same way.
Some may even be considered “broken” on some level.
Broken is a relative term.
Everything is relative.
Humans can be wired “incorrectly”, function “incorrectly”.
Everything is chaos.
I’ve been told that I think about it wrong.
Does “wrong” exist?
Humans have laws, behavioral patterns, a concept of normalcy.
I am a human, I drink water and my heart pumps blood.
I am relevant, I am relative.
I do not believe I am timeless.
I do not believe I am irrelevant.
I know that my existence affects the world, as the world affects me.
I know that both my existence and the world are constant.
I do not wish to abandon the world.
But I can’t convince myself it isn’t broken.
Why do we do the things we do in the way we do them?
Why do humans only work these few, constant ways?
I don’t believe I am special.
I know I’m not different from any other human in the way I function.
So many of the humans function the same way.
I think so often about being different.
I don’t want to break things or hurt anyone.
I want to function differently.
I want to exist differently.
I do not understand why I think the way that I do.
I don’t understand how other people think the way they do.
Everyone is the same, everyone is unique.
Is the world wrong?
Is every human wrong?
Am I wrong?
There’s something in the wiring, always.
I think I can see it.
I do not understand.
I do not know.

Advertisements

“it’s all happening”

can make art. I will create lovely things. I am a beautiful thing. I will not give up and I will make art.

My art will make me proud and happy.

I will create art that makes someone feel the way “ANGEL” (https://www.paoloraeli.com) makes me feel. I will inspire myself. I will inspire people.

I will look at what I have made and I will lose my breath.

I will feel it in my veins and ink it into my skin.

can make art.

I will.

Just you wait… I can see it…

take me to buffalo land

Go home.
Go home and make peace with your father.
Go home and talk to your mother the way she longed to speak with her own.
Go home and tell your sister that she was right and you are sorry.
Go home and tell your brothers that you love them and you couldn’t do it without them.
Go home and love those cats before you cannot.
Go home and cherish your lover without fear of loss.
Go home and change yourself.
Go home and heal.
Go home and create a safe place.
Go home and feel at home.
Go home.

And as soon as you can, get the hell out of there.

all I’ve been listening to this week is Welcome to Nightvale and this one Filter song…no wonder I’m so displaced.

I’m anxious all the time. I feel so unsafe everywhere–not in a suicidal way, never that way–I’m overwhelmed. I wake up too early every day. Most days I wake up sad. I try not to think about it, I do things that make me temporarily feel better, but I don’t forget. My brain never stops. I want to find a place where it isn’t like this, I want a home, I want to enjoy the people I’m around, I want to fix..everything. I never get it done. I don’t have a job. I’m not going to school. I spent more money, I have no money. I waste days driving in circles, going nowhere. It used to make me feel better.
How do you stop dwelling in your own tragedy? How do you fix your broken house? How do you help yourself? Have I ever been safe?
Every day I lose myself to these questions–and countless others. Locked on and detached. I’m constantly shaking. I look around and I see nothing–outside, the trees are symbols of something I cannot have, roots. Inside, sad broken people of my family and thousands of meaningless objects that fail to fill the space, no shelter. My friends are beautiful people. I know they are sad, perhaps lost. We can’t save each other, and we know it. I watch us laugh, and places I cannot describe ache. This isn’t enough. Nothing has changed. I see more now, it hurts more now.
I go to bed far too early. I get in various beds that do not feel like mine, and I am sad. I think of all that I wish for, I think of who I am, I think of who I wish to be, I think of people I will never know again and I think of how I failed them, I think of my fears, I think of the lovely human kissing my forehead and saying “sweet dreams” and for a moment I know peace–the door closes and I am a broken child, afraid of life. Afraid to live. What am I going to do? How do I live confined within myself? Where do I go? Can someone else help? How do I fix myself? How do I fix my house? What else can I think about? Why won’t it go away? Why would anyone want to die when life is so beautiful? Why doesn’t my life feel beautiful? How do I still want to live so desperately? How do I live without feeling so desperate?
I fall asleep. The earth spins and we recognize that our calendars have declared another day–a fresh opportunity to ruin the bigger picture and my overall happiness by becoming immediately and continuously panicked by the thought of time passing and nothing changing, except the color of my hair.

and the rain rain rain came down down down, on top of poor old piglet

“I think of my brain as a huge wall of books. To get information I have to climb up the ladder, find the right book and read it. Sometimes one might accidentally fall off the shelves and flip to a page on the ground–that’s when I get random knowledge or memories.” – The one who loves me.

I wish I had a shrinking submarine. I want my brain to be a library instead, teach me how to clear my head.

20170914_093819.jpg

I woke up very sad. He held me and spoke clever things, while I was sleeping he drew this. (It even says Mr. Sanders above the door!) I’m not so sad anymore.

the foot you step with has no path, nor does mine

Such a fine line.
No one can remember where it starts, only when they first caught sight of it.
It’s a very simple line, straightforward.
You are taught and told not to cross it. Perhaps you do, cross the line, but only in thought–so that’s alright–it’s not as though you’ve stepped any. No closer or farther back, no, just imagining. Does the line change? Heavens, yes. The line will shapeshift and bend, forming canyons and mountains the likes of which you’ve never seen. But alas, we do not cross it. Some braver than others, usually for the attention, take to the line. How they dance and flip, flying along the line as if it were a trapeze. They dare not cross, for theirs is an act of balance. A game. To imagine the thrill of being one so courageous, so graceful–to touch the line without consequence or fear of falling over it–why, it’s almost too much for those on this side.

 

I’d like to write a book.

i listened to ghost mice for so long that i accidentally wrote a poem to the tune of their song(s) and now i can only hear it in their voices

My house is not a home, but I don’t mind.
Because I own these roads, and have too much time.
The front seat of my car is a throne.
Behind this wheel there is hope.
I will fly wherever I go.
So know if I don’t answer my phone, I am pleasantly alone.
Last year I was a ghost, I thought I grew–but I’m still broke.
Everyday we come too close, to reaching the end of the rope.
Please know I love you so, but I’m getting in my car and never coming back.