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.
The only definitive of life I can give is death to be termed alive would mean that death is possible as far as an inanimate object incapable of death.
Bacteria it isn’t animal like incapable of thought like you or I although a complexity of decisions is plausible because life knows to grow and it inherits the ability to grow stronger quicker stealthier it’s living because it can reach death which determines life which for us it triggers morality because we debate life although we know if it’s killing us it must die.
An unborn life in a womb is capable of death which in terms it is living rather we wrestle within the thought of which life shall stride on if it is unable to survive outside of its incubator then why do we struggle with the morality it is life it is alive only in the womb do we neglect the incubator as if it is only a box of warmth rather than flesh itself?
I can be within a thought that every moment is intense and each should be cherished then within the moment after I drift within the pointlessness the struggle of thought of the ability to think are thoughts more valuable then others?
Do other animals think or is the capability of thought regulated to humans does that mean we are the most intelligent or is thought itself what destroys us hyperventilating at the thought of morals hurting feelings hurting within myself hurting the animals scattered about do they feel the pain as my feet crush upon their bodies a simple blip to me I wonder do they have thoughts?
Are my thoughts that of intelligence are they weakness are they strength I feel rather weak as my heart hurts and my lungs struggle to take in air all the pressure all the struggles of life I think it I struggle to understand it I keep living because the idea of nothing is terrifying.
I think. Every second is a thought, every moment is many. I’m changing within each hour because these thoughts are bulky erupting within my mind. My views they start over every time another speaks. I must rethink, try again. Trying to be polite as I rarely understand rarely grasp what the many say. I listen I interrupt because I need to speak before I forget.
I know I live within complaint my mind cannot understand what others see what others hear what others respond to and it sends you within shut down you don’t want to hear it you’re not one to drown within a puddle of thoughts you’re not one to fill with the angst of another you’re stronger more secure I am guilt that’s all I’ve ever been all I’ve felt weak, sad filling of guilt for what I cannot control dripping of tears for what I cannot control their opinions are and mine remain the same often doused of theirs if I lit a match it’d go up in smoke and I’d be left wallowing there feeling the pain of burnt flesh you’d dust of your skin and grow again I am not strong I feel it all my brain absorbs it and I struggle because I cannot stop it all of it all of the societal problems created by humans by myself by all of us I cannot stop it and that in itself is what holds me down.
Will it ever be as I want it to be? Each word shitter than the last and I’m stuck new ideas never finished left partially executed slipping out of the brain the pages not empty although the words re-read come out pointless new is a longing in which keeps me deleting switching because different is a difficulty in which I’m trying and I’m feeling is impossible and I can’t settle for the same only twisted bits I’m looking for entirely new and I’m not sure if I can.
I’ve been trying to work on a story recently in which I’ve changed the main characters many times and switched concepts entirely many times as well. I have this need to make something new, something that hasn’t been done. I just feel like that’s the only accomplishment I’m looking for at this point. As far as writing goes. Being an accomplished successful writer in which my words reach vase audiences would be great although at this point it’s not what would make me feel complete. It’s a struggle I have in which I’m tired of reading the same words in books, and watching them play out as movies. I want a new thought to read and take in and give out. I wonder if anyone else feels that way as a writer? Or just an avid reader, in which they’re just looking for something new that feels impossible in this age of technology? In this world of many movies and many books. Its a struggle to find a new thought and it stops me from completing anything. Thanks for reading my rambles. -Temperamentally Tina
We’re walking backwards stopping at a stand we bow to the worst of ourselves the worst of our past the worst of those that already hit death we’re becoming them reliving their hate clothing ourselves in their fear we’re stopping here and I have no explanation as to why?
Why can’t we accept a newness why can’t we live in a world that is ours and why can’t we rid ourselves of generational hate? Why can’t we all of us any of us accept each other? Why can’t we accept who is already here help those now and stop damning them for specs that may or may not be life anyways. Why can’t we live for this for each other and why can’t we congratulate and thank each other? Why do we always look up thanking a clouded sky?
I don’t think kindly I often fill of insults and cruel attitudes towards appearance and body positivity drives me crazy because hard work matters and tending to your first and foremost home is of importance. Your brain resides within your body and it is who you are and if you neglect the shell that contains that very part of you how shall I trust? How shall I listen? When you insult me and give me strategy if you yourself haven’t tended to that very piece you take everywhere your body?
Everything in, everything out. Shaking… The body is feeling. The brain is taking in, the brain is putting out. A response to the environment. Can the body relax? No it can’t, now always not every time. There are many words, many thoughts and the still the brain can’t explain. It can’t tell the body why, why it feels the stress. It’s overwhelmed and can’t explain itself.
Life shall be large and homes forever larger expanding with each breath larger we must gain.
Our time it slips and dies encased within the work we must put in and more we must without enough we cannot collect the interest is minimal when your low.
I don’t want your hopes I don’t want what I’ve read I don’t want what I’ve watched everything is often larger larger still their houses and their bodies.
There are movements now fighting for over consumption and I’m screaming here underneath all the fat and the scraps of the buildings falling down they’re given it away because they want more now always more and still they do not feel complete because their brains have been fed and fed more.
All they know is that they must take and take more and do and have more and then they die and their children they live the same.
They speak nobody wants to work and here’s a reminder to you cleaning your home taking care of the kids cooking the meals you consume the workers you pay they work and they work more and they mustn’t be paid a match to you simply because how else would you be rich?
Thanks for reading. -Temperamentally Tina
I have thoughts I believe to be my own going back through conversations whom said it first, me or you?
Are we all tied up together speaking words writing them down trying to understand reading through research I’ve been told the resolve yet I’m now curious on how what it felt to find what it felt to live through.
The terror of deaths the uncertainty of how of what led to that moment now knowing the answers and now I’m never knowing those moments or the how of it all.
We have all this knowledge and a curiosity inside us left to die unfilled because the research we’ve read the problems solved we always have more yet I want to know the past of it all how the answers to everything rather than all this knowledge dying within my brain to much to learn to much I’ve heard to much I’ve read and I’ve never been a part in which I’ve lost the magic of it all because I know the science because I know the research because I’ve been told what even if I’ve never been a part of how.