is like the new past
i know these deliciously brilliant people. when i read what they write or see what they take photos of or hear what they bang out of instruments, i feel full of ideas to create my own works of art, my own bits of myself that i can put in a form that is beautiful and pleasing to the senses, but i also feel sick to the gut at how wonderful these people are and how their gifts seep out of their pores from the deepest recesses of their beings, and at how i feel utterly inadequate and unable to transfer these ideas to a form outside of my brain. i have flashes of ideas in a head that spins like a whirlpool concentrated and squished into the small mindspace, and the harder the mind works to extract an idea/thought/sentence/emotion/word, the faster the whirl spins until it generally sinks into an abyss. is this what is known as a catch-22? the more i try to slow the whirl down, the faster it spins because of the mindspace expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting as i breathe in and out, in and out, purposefully filling the lungs to their capacity, the blood pumping forcefully through the body, sounding echo-y in the ears, holding the breath in for 1........2........3........4........5........6........7........8........9........10 and letting it go, the lungs pressing in, the carbon dioxide speeding up the trachea and out past the tongue/teeth/lips, 'so long carbon', and the muscles and organs and blood are supposed to relax, so to should the whirl ebb. no it does not, it spins faster and faster and it begins to spit out things, cold, scary, fearful, nasty, low, dark things that live in the abyss but when it spins this fast, the abyss is forced to the surface and it loves it up here, doesn't it. the light kisses it and it is fed by the light, and the speed of the whirl cranks up ever faster, shooting the cold things up and out, up and out and out into the space where it can be seen in all its menacing glory, all its spikes and fangs and red eyes, and roaring voice that will not stop, it will keep shouting and shouting, egged on by the other scaries that spew out of the abyss, and there is coldness in the body, the blood runs cold, the heart pumps faster and louder to warm the blood, the skin tingles and goose bumps appear, the breath is fast and small, the stomach shrivels into nothing and the mind starts to expand - the scaries push against it and don't let it contract, they push and push and push and it bulges out in places and how can no one else see it? how does it all happen, how do the scaries make it seem like death is imminent and deserved and no amount of "right-doing" can change the simple fact that i deserve the scaries, that i am not good, that i am a low person, that i deserve the crashed hurdles and don't deserve the cleared ones, that i do not deserve the happiness that i have?