Letting go

When I begin to purge you from my consciousness, you pervade my sleep instead. You mine away with such precision and depth until you hit a chord that shakes me awake, leaving too little a trail for me to gather the fragments of whatever warranted the jolting, but staining the fringes of my mind enough so I know, I remember, like an oil spill whose effects lasts and lasts and cuts the air off from anything trying to live, quietly, underneath. Slick, indeed. Damn the cut so deep it seeps down into my soul. 

Definition

You and I just have different ideas about what the situation means. Who was I to know that coming together meant nothing but each to their own. Apprently, mine is the abnormal exception. By the stats of your cross-section of circles and your own vast experience, it really just boils down to me being psychotic, for daring even to expect more. But it's no surprise we aren't all incredibly smart yet simple, like the gem you're lucky enough to have come across, is it? 

If we go by yours, I'm not sure I believe in the concept. 

If I don't believe it, maybe I don't want it.

And, anyway.

Why anyone would want to be so much as associated with a psycho is beyond me.

Now, if you'll excuse me while I lick characterization wounds.

Down

It's not a good thing when your body, weak and aching, wants to give in to the dark eye of sleep but your mind is whirling, spinning endlessly, a machine made to run forever, that wheel that never, never stops. Jolting awake is twice more painful when your arms, legs and shoulders remind you of their weary, defenseless plight, and twice again more dreadful that you can only lie there blinking, begging and screaming in your mind for the mercy of unconsciousness. I would improvise, but I cannot bear to hold a book up, and sitting upright to wile the hours away through virtual distraction is out of the question. All my senses clamour for attention: I am too hot but too cold and my throat is in flames and the pulsing insistence of muscles and limbs and joints too useless for anything but delivering pain is driving me to unbearable frustration.

The worst of it is I get the sense that I didn't just get it, I made myself sick. 

Finding my fit

Claire spoke often in her poetry of the idea of 'fittingness': that is, when your chosen pursuit and your ability to achieve it - no matter how small or insignificant the both might be - are matched exactly, are fitting. This, Claire argued, is when we become truly human, fully ourselves, beautiful. To swim when your body is made for swimming. To kneel when you feel humble. To drink water when you are thristy. Or - if one wishes to be grand about it - to write the poem that is exactly the fitting receptacle of the feeling or thought that you hoped to convey. In Claire's presence, you were not faulty or badly designed, no, not at all. You were the fitting receptacle and instrument of your talents and beliefs and desires.  

Zadie Smith, On Beauty

Normal

I really am thankful for her. She just gets me in many ways other people don't. She knows I'm probably never going to cry in front of her (and if not her, then no friend), that I'll always show a strong front, not because I'm tough, but just who I am, and she never tries to penetrate that. She understands even, the things I don't always say: about my aversion to care I don't want, about impressions not easily quantified, about my needs and my fears and all the excuses I would use as required, about the fact that I really just don't want to be fussed over and have group hugs and share tears and have the masses' verbal support and what not. It's something to have someone believe me when I say I don't actually care if people know, I just don't want my three months of celebrity, or however long it takes for people to stop asking questions with overly concerned faces - and to know it intrinsically, not just because I say so and you have no real choice but to appear like you believe it. Most of all, I appreciate how she just lets me vent, because that's all I'm doing: wanting to let it out without having to endure promises it will all be OK, making no comment that frustrates me further, just treating me like any other normal human being. Of course, I am a little bit secretly delighted that she gets defensive with people nosing around about me.  

Not that I'm ungrateful for the others, but that she gives a damn while being who she is, really means something.

It isn't paranoia

Sometimes, I think you're trying to disengage my gut. Which says that the only way to believe you aren't lying, is to lie to myself. 

Just stop

fucking caring

Found scribbled, in my hand, amongst my things

I could never stop you from doing the things that make you feel alive, just as I cannot stop but wish I would be enough for you. In order that one of us might live, the other has to die...

If only

If only it were easy, 

to not know any better.

If only. 

If only.

If only I'd learn how,

not to torture myself.

If only.

Ache

Sometimes I'm just waiting for the pain in my chest to subside. For the thumping to stop. For the ability not to react physically to kick in.

If I can control my tongue and harvest patience I never knew I had, I can, too, control my body.

If I can swallow things I never thought I would - mentally overcome them - I can also train my body to listen to me, not to react to those things I have to swallow.

If I can be master of my emotions so I am numb when needed, it only means I can master how my body responses, too. 

I can and I will do mind over matter, feelings over matter, body over matter.

For now, my heart is a panicked bird, but watch me drown it until it is a peaceful, sleeping dove.