Borderlands

My life is a bit of a broken record. A crappy love song. The highs are high and the lows, so low.

I wish I had a crank. Drive it into the ribs and vertebrae at the base of my neck and wind it 'til all the vast expanse of feeling was bound up into one.

I want to make a coagulate mass of the sea that engulfs me. I want to feel regular. Normal. Stable.

I want to purge the haunting of pain from my heart, my wrists, my eyes. I want to tear away the long, thing, exacting fingers that clutch at my neck, my throat, at muscle and sinew, choking me, keeping me from breathing.

I want to win a losing fight. I want out into another life. I want to dive out of myself and into the deep, the dark clotted mire. I want to lay back into rivers of peace, soft, like waters, inching up along my cheeks and mouth. I want to be saturated.

I want a guide. I want to feel every measure of strength ebb from my body. I want rest. I want sleep.

I want it out, so far out. I want to push it out. I want it expelled. I want it out.

Machiavelli... Crazy Person?

Premise 1: Knowing what a given thing is like does not liken one to the given thing.
Premise 2: Possessing certain traits does not mean that the external world or its constituent parts possess said traits.
Premise 3: A knowledge of how things have been in the past is of little consequence when imagining how things will be in the future.

You know how sometimes you stack several objects somewhat precariously, or try to lean a broom against a wall, and after letting go sort of hold your hands a few inches away, half worried the whole thing will tip, half trying to keep everything in place through the sheer force of the will power emanating from your splayed fingers?

It's hit and miss in physics. Your odds are even worse with people.

I think this is what I spend most of my time trying to do. Keeping it together. It would make much more sense to just try to stack myself neatly, with care, but the thing is, it's a shit metaphor. I'm not a pile of stuff.

It takes a lot longer to reorder your soul than it does to rearrange your closet.

This thing is going to take some time. I have to remember that. Probably a long time, with a lot of bad days, but not forever. Probably not a lifetime.

If there's one goal I can get behind, I think maybe it's dying happy. Which, of course, would mean not dying early. Which is maybe a sub-goal? Whatever it is, I can probably get behind it, too. Thus, my primary motivation in not killing myself is that it would directly impede dying happy. Way to go... rational choice!

Well, I can't damn well get it out of my system if I keep trying to hide it so other people won't worry about it, now can I?

Recycling

You take the old, you make it new.

In conflict, this is a bad thing. Relatively, even worse.

Try expressing something original. It would be the first time you said it, no? Enough with Freud, and put away the ballistic jelly. It's time for words.

I lost my voice. Who lost whose voice? I lost your voice. Try something original.

Try saying something new.

My head is full of other people's ideas. My lungs are filled with artificial air. I'm living on borrowed being. Try saying something new.

I don't want to keep going over the same thing. Ooover and oooVer, and ooovEr again. But how do you start fresh without throwing everything out? If I rebuild, I keep the bricks, or the mortar, or the plans, or something else. What if none of it's very good?

I want to say something new. So do it. So go.

So one, two... three, and go.

GO!

1 lb.

"But why are you sad? I mean, you seem sad, and you weren't so before."

Hallie thinks I am sad. Hallie is correct.

Hallie kind of reminds me of a garden gnome. She's little, and her face is sort of squishy looking because of her deep crease-y wrinkles. She also wears delightful skirts.

And she thinks I'm sad.

I am. I am sad. And I'm tired. Most of the time, most minutes of the day, I'd rather give up.

I'm faltering. I really don't believe I'm going to make it all the way. It would be nice if someone believed me. Who says it's all going to be alright?

Hallie also has a lisp, and not the greatest manners.