I’m prone to bouts of anger, short tempered, the overly sensitive type. Writing is a way to make sense of it all. While art is a way in which I can escape the thoughts that haunt me shutting off conscious thought and allowing my hands to guide me.
You are breathing you know that because you can see it through the cold your hands are turning colors the needles settling in you know you must be alive even if you’ve seen yourself buried a nightmare manifested by the brain to damper the illness.
Although the illness is make believe it’s the pressures that were invented not a natural manifestation of life a building of materials you have to beg for feeling the pressure the ills of this humanity.
Your breath is fighting the air is expelling it as your brain is convulsing they look over you are still as always standing upright you begin to move your finger tips as the needles stab deep your feet they keep your brain it’s panicking it’s feeling your bodies response is to keep on smiling as they say to even if the frown has molded itself in and everything is hurting you just keep trying to smile as a way to ease the strangers that pass on by.
I’m yelling because I’m exhausted I’m crying because it all hurts my brain is overloaded and my eyes are stinging from the tears that wallow in and it’s a shallow pool I’m drowning in they thoughts they keep on breeding I’m a failure it surfaces so often the feeling of never accomplishing or never finishing of being a burden to existence by never contributing but the reality is we are breathing we are speaking and every piece we put out every word we speak every bit we write everything we release be it a few eyes or billions we exist and success doesn’t have to be dollars being poor feels as if I’m only filth because this place has been created has been filled of commercial space and advertisements buried within our brains so deep that it becomes difficult to accept money and success isn’t the same.
I feel I’ve lived several deaths of this mind as it forgets as it learns parts are turned parts are picked parts are neglected.
They turn they rot and they die off those deaths they happen often in this brain of mine I can see so clearly feel it so heavily and then I just don’t I change it twist it the information ingests differently because as I age parts die off and my brain it changes trying to understand it all and I want to before this age sets in and everything begins to die again.
To be lost in the all parts that are the whole as it all staggers on top slipping pieces through fragments of time like shards of glass reflecting what is what was what could be ill is the mind that sees it all the times that existed all the times that haven’t that has that will that could that might that is it is a friction that heats up in the mind sparking fires around trying to cool off the skin from the flames no one else sees.
I will be here and in my death I won’t be there I’ll be the ashes in the air and not a soul left behind because I am nothing but this body you see burning of this flesh the ashes swarming I’ll be everywhere and nowhere because I’ll be nothing as the wind gathers me whipping me about my body a dead host and my brain demolished I’ll be gone I will no longer think no longer stress no longer try because as wrong as I am it won’t matter in the end and as I right as I want I’ll only be the words I written and the words I spoken and yet I’ll be nothing but the ashes entering your lungs as you struggle to breathe I will be everywhere and yet nowhere because my brain will be nothing and my thoughts will be empty and I’ll be nothing but ashes.
I have a difficult time being ok with it with most of it I wake up because I’m alive I’d rather stay asleep although to stop dreaming is incomprehensible to my brain how could I not exist I wouldn’t know the brain would stop and it would all stop?
It’s that idea that theory that belief that when my brain stops sending signals my hearts stops beating my lungs stops breathing it is over and I have nothing and I’m nothing that makes me value life if I lived in expectation of death of the life after this then I’d neglect how unique the experience of life is.
I thought it would disappear way deep inside me and at this I’d be different more comfortable less in a panic able to listen in group settings without my ears over heating and my brain glitching only it isn’t I’m still like this only now I can accept it and accept that others will make judgement and I can’t stop it and it’s alright to be misunderstood because they have the right to dislike to be bothered and I have the right to be this a person that panics that shies away from conversation because I’m talking in my head uncomfortable to be there laughing on the inside as my face is in a frown it’s just a face and it’s just a resting place it’s ok and if it bothers that’s fine to.
I don’t want to be crude I just have thoughts and I think a lot and I’m not the type to enjoy tradition I just can’t do simply because people have.
I don’t believe in GOD and I don’t wan to be blessed during every transaction and I don’t want to smile because it makes you feel comfort I’m not comfort my heart is bathing within toxic fluid and my eyes when they cry their tears will eat trough like acid.
I can’t follow the rules my mind stops it can’t process what you can it screams at me it stops computing which could be favorable I don’t join into hazing or being crude for the fun of I’m just a bitchy sort crude in my way not that mean sort of group I wouldn’t lead it I’m mostly just me.