Whenever I sit down to write I end up with nothing. A few sentences, delete, a few more and hit delete. Frustration at my lack of inspiration exhausts me. I’m tired but I loathe sleeping. I need to find a way to express the emotions pent up inside of me but I don’t know how. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say when I write but rather that I feel like I’ve said it all before. I feel like I’m running in a circle with no change. My life is just continuing in the same way and I’m desperately screaming for a change.
I reckon this feeling to being in a pond of brackish, slime coated, algae covered water. I thrash and thrash to clear the water, to break free, but no matter how violent I am, the water never clears. I’m exhausting myself trying to change that which I cannot. I’m dying for a breath of fresh air, a whiff of something different. I’m scared of slipping under those green ripples and sinking to the powdery bottom. I’ve rested there, surrounded by a film, numb, slicing in to my flesh to feel something. I bear the scars of those times and I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to lose my mind, become a shadow of myself.
I used to hate feeling numb, like I don’t exist; I thought it was the worst that one could feel. And maybe it is. All I know is I’m broiling with emotions now. Intense, blinding emotions that sweep me away in the passion. I’m so angry, furious, at the little things. I want to scream, break things, wreak a path of havoc through the world that surrounds me. I don’t know what I’m angry at. I feel like I’ve snapped. I’m seeing red, spewing venom through froth-covered lips and I don’t know why. This anger is like a high, pushing me to do lots, to work this feeling out of my system.
But when it’s gone I feel so hollow. There is a physical pain in my chest, as if there is a gaping hole in my chest. It hurts constantly, but sometimes it’s so painful all I can do is curl up around a pillow and try to breathe. Sometimes I wonder if I’m making it all up, or maybe I’m just hungry. But the pain is so intense, so real I know it can’t be fake. It’s not in my head. It’s real. But I can’t cry this pain away. No tears to give some relief.
I feel like I’m in a glass cage, walking, disconnected from everyone else. I feel so alone, even though there are people all around me. I feel like I’m slipping away, becoming invisible, or I’m not really here. Like I’ve died and I’m just an apparition. But then the pain hits and I know that it’s all real.
I don’t know how to handle these emotions; I don’t know how to find moderation. There so much pressure to be perfect and I know I can’t be. I’ve cracked so many times and out of every crack oozes what I’ve kept inside. I don’t want the blackness of my mind oozing out for everyone to see. It’s hard enough to deal with the stares, the sharp words. I don’t want to give them something else to gnaw on.
Sometimes I’m scared of what I’m feeling. So much anger, hatred, loathing. My thoughts are so vile, so bitter and rancid that they make me want to vomit. I don’t know how to control it.
But times I can breathe, I can laugh, and I know I can do this. They are rare but every time I hold onto that feeling. One day I will be able to love without poison lacing every touch. I just have to make it one day at a time.
So I ramble and serve it up with poison.