Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Sunshine



 = to come out of hibernation






Thursday, March 23, 2017

The story is making me nauseous




*
It's not me anymore.
It's the one telling the story.
I can't go back to raw experience
I'm the story I'm telling.
The letters of my life have always typed themselves up
in front of me, preceding me,
being formed as a story as I bring them forth in action,
But now it seems they are all I am, they have taken over,
just words that come before me.
I speak what is already spoken in my head.
Words are uttered in me like the pulses of blood streaming
Maybe instead of blood
It's just a flood of words.
I'm so scared and I want to go back.
I want to just experience instead of being the narrator of the experience to myself.
Now I am just a narrator.
When did I start detaching from myself?
It's not me anymore.
It's the one telling the story.
She is my experience.
I am no longer anything.
I see the things I do through my eyes but I am not here.
I'm scared.
Sometimes I panic.
I want to be here.
Will I ever go back to being here?
Or will I always fantasize about it until I die, while being something else,
just a hovering consciousness?
It seems that slowly, since the day I was born,
I became infected,
And all that I have done, to be good
To be smart, to be sane,
To be true,
Have proved void of effect,
And that today,
Despite my wanting to be free and serene -- fuck, that's all! That's all I'm asking!!! --
My brain is losing itself... I hope just temporarily.

I don't know if it's anxiety
Or the beginning of a mental illness
But I'm scared.
I can't stop the deterioration and the detachment.
I'm hoping that a change of scenery will bring a change of mind.
Who knows.
Only time will tell if I'm going to become Crazy
Or Free.

And if my words prove to be right or wrong
Take it as devoid of meaning
Because it's not me.
I'm somewhere else.
*








Friday, March 10, 2017

Ages 16-18



I feel 16-18
And it seems to me that perhaps
Those years were the most now-concentrated, here-situated, dedicated years. Without trying to be, they were. Maybe because they weren't trying to be anything.
Everything after that is a blur.