Month: September 2022

More Morose than Most

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Moon Sea – Sun Kai

It’s difficult, this wandering mind that speaks of despair and death followed by feelings that prance and plague the heart and soul with solemn thoughts and wicked words. It is the invasive conceptions of a traumatized mind that form an inescapable umbra casting shadows in the light and swallowing hope whole. It is cruel premonitions of a life steeped in inadequacy that encroach like a predator starved for prey, slowly and with great care, only to strike right at my throat, choking me with metaphor and simile until I feel myself grasping for breath. I fear these moments because it leads me to believe the floodgates on my feelings have been loosed, and that I will forever feel that dreams of death will always taste a little sweet.

It scares me late at night or worse, during the day when I feel this crippling sense of lowness. This feeling that through all my toil, I am unequivocally bound for a life of ephemeral mediocrity followed but the subsequent oblivion of being forgotten. It paralyzes me, drowning me in this waking nightmare about a time that has never come and still yet never may be. The visions appear to me in the visage of a well-worn memory, as if to be assured premonitions warning me about the future that is to come. It sours my mood and makes me believe fate is a foe insurmountable.

It speaks to these insecurities of mine that those around me never put me in their mind. That conversations are short, and feelings are even shorter. That I am minuscule and momentary to the experience of those who are meant to serve as compatriots for a time on spaceship earth. It makes me read between the lines and question all statements. To take every action, movement, song, and verse as evidence of my accusatory paranoia. Though I override these thoughts and beliefs, I grow weary of fighting with myself to come home exhausted and unable to sleep.

It’s a menagerie of experiences that culminate to inexorable episode of multitudes of meloncoly. I try to see with eyes unclouded, but wounds in my heart remind me that this place I exist may never be as I want to see it. I have become attuned to my world, and I find it darker than the halls path I walk at night. This cold place makes this feeling echo loud and makes the noose tighten slightly around my dream.

These feelings come in ways and waves that I don’t know how to fend. I may have let too much in to be free of these feelings for the rest of my life. For now, I try and rest and write my way through it in hopes that by the time the morning comes that I can once again start again.

The Hate In Healing

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Failed Work – Dino

I hate this.

This continued conversation I come back to. Taking this meta-focused approach of writing about how painful the writing process become and to wearily replete the page with a sincere apology for the indiscretion of not arriving sooner.

I hate this is the only way I know how to return to this process though my brain fills to the brim with words left unsaid. My hands freeze now every time I return to writing, be it personal or professional, this feeling of impending emotion begins to overtake the reminiscent pleasure I used to receive from putting my hands to the keys. It feels strange as if I am faced with an invisible wall that I am scared to touch because it will hurt me, or that when looking at the page that some invisible hands begin to squeeze my heart.

I hate them for all this pain and strife I’ve encountered as a result the trauma they have inflicted upon me. This inability to escape from this shadow they have placed me under, no matter how illogical this may be.

And I hate myself for letting these wounds seep in deep and scar because of my fear, doubt, and pain. I speak to healing but never allow myself the space to return.

It’s been difficult because every time I don’t quite make it to putting my thoughts on the page as it adds one more to my list of failures. The wall of returning becomes greater and greater until I stand before mountains made of the mind. To speak of being able to do and then looking to the mountain I need to climb and I am disheartened.

Though I return to the space of needing to be compassionate to myself. Just like the act of physical therapy or attempting to get strong, the expectation that I should return from a prolonged break or hurt without the need to build back this muscle slowly is problematic. Though this may seem simple and obvious to some, the practice of it is harder than it seems.

What I need to do this slow again, and find myself in the words that used to call for me. Spend time but be okay with retreating a few paces to give me the space to grow again. I need to heal and more fully acknowledge the effect of the wound on my heart. “Start slow”, I have to tell myself, “but be consistent”. It’s okay to write a little as much as it’s okay to write a lot. Just be consistent, and remember your audience, me.

I hope then I can find that solace in these words and upset the upset in my heart. For now, it’s just a step, and one small step, one after another, and I will find myself in having traveled to where I want to be in no time. Just keep walking.