In flux.
Too many things confuse me right now. I don't know what I'm doing or feeling or what's happening half the time, because the moment I think I've got a fix on it, things change. There's a new story--a new song and dance--and I have to try to follow the tune and maintain the choreography; I can't afford not to. I can hear myself utter jarring, sour notes and watch myself lumber awkwardly and gracelessly--all the while screaming at myself to stop talking, to stop moving, to stop flailing--and yet I cannot stop it. Sometimes I long for white noise. At least then I could find some kind of pattern again for myself without all the outside interference.
Sometimes I look at myself long enough in the mirror that I start to lose all coherence as a self and become some strange mountain of lumpy, spotty other-flesh that bears no resemblance to anything connected to my identity. I explore the hills and valleys of pockmarked puckers, pits and pores across the roadmap of facial flesh, and wonder how my consciousness can be trapped inside this. It's more surreal than any Dali image, and sometimes I feel if I stare long enough, I'll suddenly erupt from the mountain in a shower of blood, bone chips, and viscera. I'll finally have enough space to radiate in all directions past my fears and striving--and the freedom to condense into the tightest ball of self-conviction possible--in a way that this battered, broken-down hulking fleshprison could never allow.
Sometimes I look at myself long enough in the mirror that I start to lose all coherence as a self and become some strange mountain of lumpy, spotty other-flesh that bears no resemblance to anything connected to my identity. I explore the hills and valleys of pockmarked puckers, pits and pores across the roadmap of facial flesh, and wonder how my consciousness can be trapped inside this. It's more surreal than any Dali image, and sometimes I feel if I stare long enough, I'll suddenly erupt from the mountain in a shower of blood, bone chips, and viscera. I'll finally have enough space to radiate in all directions past my fears and striving--and the freedom to condense into the tightest ball of self-conviction possible--in a way that this battered, broken-down hulking fleshprison could never allow.