i'm melting!
I stretch out my mind. I unclench my fingers. I try not to slouch. I try to straighten my back. Stand up. Fly right.
I am losing my grip of the past. I am losing my grip upon the things that I thought used to define and give texture to me.
Maybe I'm just losing.
I am filled with so much hope and promise for the future, but I can no longer see where I've been. Those tracks are filling with sand/snow/rain and those who helped and held me safe have slipped into cracks and alleyways.
I don't feel lonely, just intangible.
I want to be able to look through my hands. I want to be able to see into the back of my skull. I guess I want to be taken in hand. Maybe I wish I could look back and back and back and forget the forward.
I want to start some things over. I wish I was stupid enough to sit down and have those 'deep' conversations about what religion means and muse on the nature of god. Of for the end of high school, the beginning of college. When you felt you were so intellectual. Your thoughts were so big they were oozing out of you. You couldn't contain them. You had to share...and everywhere you went, in classes, coffee shops, in the library, you found people who were also oozing and bursting.
I talk of love. I say 'i love you.' I don't know what it means. I don't know what words have to hold them to thought and feeling. They're supposedly just the stitch of thought. Insignificant. Yet they're so wounding. I'd like to think they're inconsequential.
Have I loved? Have I been in love? Can someone so filled with a self-loathing fill that with something else? Cry all I like. Talk and analyze all I like, maybe the past slips away because I'm an overgrown, angry little boy. I've sent myself to my own room without supper. And I'm pouting. I will spend my life pouting because I won't be the adult. I wouldn't know how.
My head is splitting in eighteen divergent patterns. My mouth moves in shapes and patterns, but none are useful. Words, and lies, and promises, and everything spills out of me, and I'm not sure whether it's me. Whether it's genuine and sincere, or an attempt at a lifelong elaborate mindfuck. Whether I'm trying to convince the world that I'm fine, in order to manipulate myself into being so.
I used to sit on the edge of recess, under a tree, and sing songs to myself. I would make up songs and rhymes, and imagine that one day I would be something so much greater than I could imagine or anyone else would guess. One day I would be sitting on the edge of my own creation.
I want to be coddled. Take me in hand. Don't leave me. Don't you ever leave me. Don't take the one thing I think I'm gripping onto.
Who are those words directed to? I don't know. They're just coming and coming and pouring and dripping. Words just shooting out of me for no reason.
If none of this makes sense tomorrow or now, it's fine. It's the feeling and lack thereof.
vitreous smiles.