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.
It physically hurts when others they speak their words attach to my skin and I try to dig them out of my pores only they’re quick seeping in and expanding inside.
My brain sends an army their team name ANGER. They’re vicious and ready to tare their opponents as they grab the words that slip in on the ready they launch them out to destroy the others that cause the hurt and any of the innocent standing about.
Using chemicals to feed the garden deterring the critters and the insects as if they shouldn’t eat as I hold the tomato batting it in the face of the little critter looking at me flicking its tail as I laugh it’s all for me later a rumble comes over and the pain almost unbearable I hunch over the critter in the window laughing at me Thanks for not sharing.
She saw the nurse holding the syringe labeled a bad mood and quickly she thought, How would it be any different why not succumb and accept it? Wouldn’t it be easier to be regulated even if it’s anger and sadness at a high intensity rather than a mixture of all happy, excited, surprised, sad, angry, frustrated the list continues unsure of which feeling will appear at least she’d know the words for the feeling she was feeling at every moment.
Every thought has become closer to war and opinions have become political. I remember the times when people just voted to vote as if it mattered then the election ended and they lived on. Now all we do is talk complain about this side complain about that side and I’m like are they both rich? Salute to them they bought their way their faces glued on the tv I salute them. Which one? Uhh there is more than one? Oh yea that’s right the one that looks like a poorly made wax figure has melted out of office and now we have another old man cool.
Frustration existed at the first moment of thought even before thought was possible frustration crept in at the moment of breath even before then as they nestled in their mother’s womb frustration was already alive within them.
As frustration grew through childhood and early adulthood frustration changed at first it was the smallest feeling a tinge of hunger awaiting another to be fed feeling a burp awaiting release by a pat on the back a first step a stumble and several steps turned into full on sprints and it was time to go to school.
Frustration was never seated in the back yet never placed in the front of the teachers lecture frustration appeared as the teacher shook their head forcing them to wait their turn speaking out of turn was prohibited thinking up their own responses prohibited bathroom breaks were few and if they weren’t quick enough they wouldn’t make it and the laughter consuming as frustration grew.
As adulthood approached frustration grew excited and began to lighten leaving the adult full of anticipation till the bills piled and they had others to answer to and expectations rarely were met as they realized the rules are binding and they’ve been trapped by their teachers and the rest of the elders into believing they themselves were capable of answering to themselves.
I watch the words as they write themselves upon the walls of my mind. The little me she scurries to wipe clear the walls to keep it clean as the words write faster upon the walls she struggles to keep up. Smudging words as letters become entangled and words look funny and peculiar to that of what I was taught. She stands back wondering if any words are any one persons and if any thoughts are any bodies alone? Are they the thoughts of the person that wrote them or are they the thoughts of all the others that invented them. Are our thoughts forced upon us do we think them up ourselves? Is it that our minds have already been written since we subject ourselves to rules and structures and information passing from one to us and I ask at what point do we stop thinking for ourselves or have we never? Have we only thought the thoughts we were given by others? Are all our thoughts predetermined? Is it possible to think something different when we use words that already exist? How many combinations till they’ve all been used refurbished and it all becomes the same?
I can see the thoughts as I think them slipping out of my mind as if they’re spiders quickly sprouting webs as the words dangle hanging off my ceiling in the webs of thoughts hatching as the anxious feelings grow and they multiply as my mind sputters to keep up my eyes weighted by all that they must process and my hands quickly type as the words begin to be eaten by the thoughts and my feelings keep changing and my opinions they alter as the spiders feed.
If the universe is connected, then we are all connected? I want to break free of that connection. I want to make art that isn’t of the past. I want to create new not alter parts rather find entirely new parts as they did in the times before now. When they were gifted with the newness of life of having fewer books and fewer connections to the past and they could create and they could design and they could set rules in which we now all follow. If only we could repaint our past hang up new signs and let the dead be dead as we allow ourselves to create again. Graffiti the buildings burn our money shred the cards close the banks and just create something entirely different that for once isn’t about one hovering above rather all standing together and then I’ll be willing to fuse that connection once again because it’d be worth it.
All the trash pile it in a landfill and the pains just cover with a pill and the thoughts erase with a hard fall as the others just stand there and stall shredding the evidence of actions altering the captions.
History books are flawed and feeling that soon will be outlawed as the past speaks the boards of the past creeks and we all just listen some angry, some content with their vision and others left to question their very own reflection.
It’s just a part of human trapped in part of tradition bathing themselves in culture as they bury themselves within scripture it’s the pressure of the species forced to live sheepishly because we think, because we feel because we over compensate what is real neglecting the past is truth laced in opinion the ability of make-believe is human.