Tuesday, November 17, 2015

i am tired.

there are many parts. the first one is languid- i don't feel very real- as in, i'm unable to establish my own space, or if i have, i've abandoned it, and entered a place where everything else is real, and i do not fit in it. it's a low-hanging cloud- languid, oscillating, easily perpetuated- but the way i generate the meaning of things is indirect. the math is very complicated, even mysterious. with this being the way it is, it seems very painful that life is "unfair", so i can lay down all day with my hyper-vigilance- because, if my goal in life is to just survive each moment, then i'd rather do it as a languid cloud. one rule: my anxiety may not be made visible. nobody is allowed to see my anxiety in its raw form which it fails to evolve from.
the second part is when i, as always, continue feeling unreal, but i am moving faster. it's an emotional migraine. if i move faster, my thoughts are faster, they move with violence. the id unveils itself. i disown the possible relation to anything with a discombobulating suspension. the chances of me holding myself together are really slim. and if my thoughts are faster, i move faster, except i can't match the speed of my thinking. it feels just as pathetic. the unfortunate catch twenty-two is that the golden rule applies here, too: my anxiety may not be made visible.
the demands of life don't feel any less than torturous. it feels miraculous that i can listen to music sometimes, because even the music feeds my anxiety- i would be making music if i wasn't so fucking pathetic. the demands of life are aggressive in their demanding and i too demand, aggressively, to comply. but i am blocked. i am devastated by how painful it is for me to go out there, always fucking grieving- like, "i just died again", as opposed to congratulating myself. very surface-deep thing to do. but there is nothing that comes close to the degree of demoralizing as being on display, knowing i am out, misunderstanding, and not fitting.