Constricted

Not so much bubbling up, but waves
Not so much waves but
Pressure exerted upward, pushing up through my chest and into my throat, down through my knees and making my shins and feet jump and contract
I want to be outside
I want to go places
Is this wanderlust?

Random

I need stress to write. I need stress to write?? That feels so cliche, so "tortured artist", so... counter intuitive. It's true though. I'm forcing myself to write this out, hoping something will get me going. One neuron will kick another, some idea will float down and land on my head (or more likely, plonk down and stare at me accusingly until I do something about it). Right now, there's just no push. The little bit of my brain that works like a typewriter, always clicking and spinning, slows down when I'm actually focused. When I'm busy, I need to daydream, leave myself for a bit, and that typewriter picks itself up and starts producing, all by itself. Sometimes I feel I'm just a vehicle for mad and strange ideas, bits of poetry, fragments of someone else's writing that filter down through the layers of the universe.

I Always Read the Comments Section

I always read the comments section.
Read, and look in, even as my eyes wire words that my brain immediately rejects.
Witness the love, the hate, the ignorance and fear and just plain stupidity
All protected behind the one-way mirror of an internet avatar.
You see out, we can't see in: the perfect mask.

I always read the comments section.
On good days, words of hope and love abound, rationality rules, logic takes the stage.
On bad days, I see a regression of humanity, determinedly grinding backwards towards a closed, closeted world where free speech doesn't feel free.
Freedom of stupidity exists for a reason, as does freedom of ignorance but
Who are we to indulge in spreading those freedoms?

I always read the comments section,
and despite my better judgement (or perhaps because of my better judgement), I never comment back.
I exist as a silent observer, quietly categorizing and balancing, actively judging from behind my own personal wall of tightly clasped ideology.
Is that bad? Probably. I hide and have the luxury of praising myself over others. I never join the battle.
But.
Just by reading, I learn, and that,
I hope,
Makes a small difference.

Commit

Official enrolled. School email, username, money paid in. Orientation scheduled, planning, research. Not even a bit committed. What should be so certain is the exact opposite: none of this feels real. My second option has yet to appear, and I'm still grasping at faint hopes of something better (such an inopportune word, better). Ever so slowly, the selfishness sets in. Money offered, and I'm turning my nose up at something that would make my family feel a lot better. I don't know if I can make that choice, should I have the opportunity to go somewhere else. I'm scheduled to go to orientation in a few weeks, meet people, sign up for classes. I'll be going in not committed, waiting for a loophole to determine my fate. It's the worst kind of helpless.

Drained

Two papers, one job, a thousand words I won't be speaking tomorrow.
Six classes, two thousand meters, too many people I encounter.
Is it bad I don't have the capacity to deal with Day of Silence right now?
Too many things pile up (even worse, beyond my control) and I can't move beneath the mental weight of decisions that change my outcomes and relationships.
Two weeks, two papers, one memorial service: the worst possible time for everything to come together.
Mental bills pile up: I'm sure they'll be collecting at some point.
Fuck.

Rereading

You made me hurt in a way I didn't think was possible. Going back, rereading even the first lines of what you wrote, the knots work themselves back through my chest and throat, climbing and coiling, and then they just sit: a reminder.

I pride(d) myself on detachment. I warned you, saying I wasn't ready or willing to commit, unwilling to give the romantic gestures you so obviously craved. After the first time, I didn't see you for four months, and except on the lonelier of many cold nights, I wasn't sorry. You weren't worth my time, and for that I'm truly sorry. I know now that I hurt you, more than I meant to, more than I ever intended. I never intended.

You did warn me, before you sent me the link. "It'll hurt," you said. I didn't listen. I put too much faith in my flimsy walls, sure you couldn't wield power over my emotions. Wrong. Sucker punch to the gut, beating down my heart, curl up in a ball and absorb the blows that just keep coming. I deserved every single one of them.

Every so often, I go back. Click the link, start reading, and then just... stop. I can't do it. You impacted my world in perhaps exactly the way you intended. I'm vulnerable now. Each admission of my faults, written in your lyrical and devastatingly accurate prose, broke me down further. I haven't made it through a second time, and for that, I thank you. You made a difference on the first try: more than I could ever do for you.

Catch-22

When the world gives us
Heartbreaking belly laughing happy/sad crying mind bending circular timelines with syndicates and corrupt colonels and the stark blood and guts of human existence spilling through the pages
Why is it necessary for me to do anything but sit and wonder at
The state of a universe that holds such an existence but still
ceases to give up its own secrets?