It is not eerie to be in a room, but it is somehow eerie to imagine a room in your mind with no inhabitants. On what plane does the room in your mind exist? How can you picture the way it lies suspended in memory? Why is the real lighting normal, but the lighting in your mind perturbing? In death, is that realm the one you explore forever? The realm in the mind, which closes in upon you from all sides like static, like darkness? There is no sunlight in your mind. There is no fresh air, no tactile sensation, every unsettling detail expanding infinitely in magnitude. It’s as if you have always existed — only stored in a corner of that memory space, preceding your birth, preceding the birth of time. You found physical form outside of it, and when you lose your physical form, that space is where you will return.
Spreading your fingers out flat against the table. Friction stopping your soul from falling backwards out of your body and into the maw of hell.
Reality twisting. But what is reality? It’s shifting. This isn’t the truth. God is withholding the truth. This is a simulation test. Soon, the world will turn into focus and you will face judgment.
You love drinking because alcohol is glue and it slaps your halves together.
Is it your instincts that lie to you? Or your insecurity? Or reality itself? Stop thinking about reality. It doesn’t matter what’s real.
When you imagine having conversations, your words flow freely alongside the current of your thoughts. But when you really speak, time freezes like a Tomb Raider quicktime action, only you aren’t allowed to think because everyone is yelling at you to be clever and by everyone I mean you. You hold reality in your hand. That’s a lot of responsibility. And you can’t even keep up with a conversation.
Your instincts are your compass and your compass is broken and there’s no way, there’s absolutely no way, that everyone else feels this incredible sense of urgency.
Aching self hatred.
Stop fucking obsessing. You pathetic fucking worm.
You know if you could stalk people and get away with it, you would. You tell yourself you’re just fascinated by people. I’m sure that’s true. I’m sure it’s normal to fantasize about someone you’ve known for one week. I’m sure that’s normal.
You can’t even fucking kill yourself. Because you’re so afraid of death.
you want to envision the whole world
in the brief span of time that it gives you.
to be thrown from the heavens unfurled
cut away from indifference and seen through.
you are translucent illuminating pain
shot through to the hollow and aching
space between your temples. force the rain.
swallow whole every moment that time has taken
away from you. if others exist they are yours
they are yours because God granted you vision.
burn away death with feeling and fire and roar
up into the holy light from which you were risen.
you never asked for this but you’ll take it
whole and wanton and raw and never again
will you allow anything to cheat your spirit.
The present hurtles me forward
but when I close my eyes, I
and I can hear the past and
the future rush up behind me to
scream in my ear.
I can feel the simulation of my life
turning slowly toward reality.
Eternity never looks at me twice,
but I glance at it again and again,
obsessively, like I glance
at the clock during tests.
Is this why we’re mortal?
Because the disappearance of time
outlines us like a flash of double exposure?
Because being hurtled toward death
is what gives us the weightless sensation
like the last few seconds of Space Mountain?
I have chills, like time is
licking the back of my neck
in San Francisco wind.
I’m 18. I don’t want
to cast bets against my mind
over my remaining days,
but it’s what makes everything so
beautifully fragile. Without cold water
to wake me up, would peaceful sleep
feel so delicious?
And without eternal sleep,
would I fight so hard to stay awake?
I’m afraid this will get worse with age,
but I’m also afraid it’ll go away.
Sometimes I hate reading because I know I can’t remember every beautiful thing I’ve ever read. The dredges of humanity produce such beautiful things, and I despise the linear process of my mind because there’s no way to comprehend all of it at once. Enlightenment comes one thought at a time. Realizations are transient, and I love poetry but reading it is so ridiculously sad. Like falling in love with someone in a dream. I write things down, but there’s only so many places to write them, and what if I even forget where I put them? I used to keep a detailed daily journal, and it stressed me out because I couldn’t write everything down. Even if I could muster up every scrap of memory accumulated throughout the day, there would be things I’d forgotten that wouldn’t reach paper and would thereby cease to exist. I don’t keep a daily journal anymore, so I don’t stress so much. Except for those moments when I realize how much I’ve neglected to write about that I’ll never remember. Those memories just slip away. Does the present even matter if you won’t ever recall it? Is what’s happening right now worth anything if it’s impermanent? When I read a really great poem that really speaks to me, there’s a lingering panic like static in the background. I might forget about this poem tomorrow. Maybe only an hour from now. What seems life-changing right now won’t mean anything soon enough. My life rolls on and overlaps and folds into itself like frothing little waves on the shore. I remember a poem. Maybe two. A couple of books that are just as great as all the other great books I’ve read that I don’t ever think about. I stress because I’m afraid I won’t move anyone with what I make, but even if I do, it’ll only be for one minute, and that minute will be trampled over and left behind. By the time the earth crumbles and the sun over-saturates, every dent I made in humanity will be rendered so insignificant I might just as well never read any heartfelt poems at all.
looking forward to something for a week and realizing while it’s happening that it’s not as good as you thought it would be and feeling disappointment and guilt because you expected too much and guilt because you’re ungrateful that the world doesn’t add up to what you thought it would be and anger because you’re so unable to process the world as it revolves around you and everything feels like it’s already a reflection and a memory and nothing happens in the present, everything is just the past and every single moment is overlooked
I know I can laugh about it. My tutor tells me I seem like I’m fading. I brush it off and tell him I’m tired, tell him this school stuff is really taking its toll.
I haven’t done my math homework in three weeks.
This is either because of the built-up emotion or the used-up emotion. Whether I’m battered or bleeding. You tell me.
I will brush my hands across your face, run my fingers through your hair. Your presence is like an anchor. Well, that or a distraction. And I can’t tell. I either love you or I need you. Those feel similar but they are vitally different.
Look for me buried in the crawl space beneath my church. Look for me in the ashes of my grandfather who shot himself three weeks ago. Look for me among the wrinkled fabric of my laundry basket. Look for me between yellowed pages of Star Trek novels published in the 70’s. Do me a favor and and find me somewhere.
I can function. I tell myself I can always function. But I guess that just means I’m not about to kill myself.
This is so hard. This is gouging.
I want you. Or I just want someone to touch me. I don’t feel like I’m falling apart. I feel like all of the different parts of me are floating, just barely separated, connected nowhere but somehow remaining intact.
This doesn’t feel like the end. Or the beginning. Or the middle. There isn’t anywhere to go from here. Feels like a video game after you’ve completed every mission. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Collect coins and buy nothing. Play into the night until you’ve got a headache but you’ve passed the same scenery twelve times but you can’t quit the game and move on to another.
If I were to unwind all my body parts and lay my nervous system end to end, they might wrap around the world a few times or whatever but I would be dead. I’m good at art, I can write pretty well, I’m not particularly ugly. I have potential but it’s useless. I can come up with metaphor after exquisite metaphor but I feel like I’m already gone.