‎Sunday, ‎November ‎15, ‎2015, ‏‎7:54:43 PM

I say that I’m doing fine. because I’m not in pain. I say that things are good because I no longer
find myself crippled over and heaving and struggling for meaning because
of that sense of some invisible clock ticking and my time slowly running out.
but I haven’t gone running in over a week. I haven’t been proud of my art in months. I’ve barely written anything.
I don’t lie down for hours to feel existence dip to cradle me.
but I am angry, and when I lie down to take naps I can’t wake up for 4 hours, and the only reason I do wake up is because
I am overcome by a wave of intense anger and I can’t even control my own body, so
I pound the wall with my fist until my parents yell at me
and I’m finally awake and resenting my inability to heed an alarm.
I don’t know if this is prose or poetry and I know it’s fucking shitty, but all I want to do
is make something beautiful and feel the way I used to, like I’m gifted
with the Midas touch of creativity.
I am not anxious. I am not depressed. I have not had any panic attacks. I am doing fine.
but I’m bland. everything is bland.
I want to start boxing so I can beat the shit out of things and ignore whatever has been itching
at the base of my mind
telling me to get off my fucking ass.
I want to be homeless. I want to go camping for a week. I want to smoke until it doesn’t throw me out of reality.
I want to fall down drunk. I want to have sex. I want to fucking fall apart. because that’s when I make things.
I do meaningful things only when they’re the last thing I should be doing. I live off of anxiety. I get off on pain.
I write poetry about how my soul is hanging off my body but I secretly love it because it gives me something
to say about myself.
I am so fucking selfish. I am whining because I have nothing to whine about. my life is great. I am normal. I don’t
to be normal.


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