On the cusp of metamorphosis.

I remember laying in bed when I was in my early to mid teens, my legs aching inexplicably. My mom explained to me that these were growing pains. I'm pretty tall so I had these a lot and they hurt like a bitch. There was nothing to do but lay there and endure.

I'm now realizing a parallel between those literal, physical pains, and the pain of loss. As I've gotten older I've started to realize that transformation and change are almost always uncomfortable. You invest yourself in whatever your current life is and you get comfortable with it. You mistake it for your SELF and what makes up YOU. And then one by one all of your attachments are inevitably ripped from you, or they disintegrate, or you make the choice to give them up, and lo and behold, you still exist.

Those things were not you. That job was not you, those habits were not you, that partnership that you felt so permanently ingrained in... not you. Ripping things that have been growing into you, out, is going to fucking hurt. It's like pulling out an impacted wisdom tooth, very much a part of your being but hurting too bad to keep in place.

Remember all of those times that you thought you'd die from the pain, whether emotional or physical? Well, there you sit! We're all stronger than we feel at any given moment. Trees battered by storms grow deeper roots.

Every feeling passes. Even the feeling of the wind being knocked out of your lungs every time you think a person's name, which has become so familiar over the past months or more. This is a universal, ubiquitous, and omnipresent experience, as much a part of being human as the need to sleep. Suffering inevitably follows attachment and we will keep learning these lessons until we realize that we own nothing, not even our bodies.

Weekend musings

There's a pulsing vibration filling up my entire body, if it were visible it would be luminous. It exists over communication with type and in person the volume's turned way up, and I am a live wire.
Personal space bubbles overlapping, I'm breathing in sparks, I am buzzing with energy, I could combust at any moment. In fact it's a wonder to me that I don't.
Being in the same mental space is all it takes, though sharing physical vicinity makes it almost too intense, like sitting a little too close to a camp fire and starting to feel the burn. This vibe is similar to but way beyond sexual excitement, though the two often overlap.

I'd like to use all of these blessed cyber platforms to communicate but I'd prefer real voices complete with body language, and I'd accept telepathy. Yes I believe telepathy is possible, and that it was happening before our interactions even existed. I believe we are bridging a continuum of time space here and interlocking souls regardless of whether they exist.
This connection is bigger than me. I am tapping into something ineffable and I don't completely believe I'm even a necessary component. I am a point of consciousness lighting up on the map at the same time as you, we are burning bright.
Intellect fails in understanding this. It's serious but the most laughable thing in the world. It's the most ease filled difficult situation, fraught with paradoxes yet insanely logical. I doubt motives all around including mine.
Something so powerful seems to beg careful scrutiny but at the same time I want to trust the pulse, because it makes me feel alive.... like cliff jumping into almost painfully cold water, like turning a corner too fast and almost flipping your vehicle, like challenging fate only to have it lash out at you and remind you what's up. Is something that turns up the volume on liveliness what should be trusted most? Ahhh natural highs.

Thoughts

Writing is exorcising demons. The nasty ones, and the nice ones too. Writing is purging your spirit of whatever filth or joy may be swirling around inside of it. Writing is catharsis, an inexplicable connection to something, a mode of expression both limited and limitless.

I read somewhere yesterday that in your head it's hard to tell what's going on but something about ink and paper brings out the truth. I find this to be startlingly true, though I prefer type since I can keep up with the flow of my thoughts much easier. You cannot allow yourself to lie when you dictate your own thoughts, and if you do it's difficult, it's painstaking, it feels wrong. It's not catharsis but fabrication and feels more like work than passion.

One could argue that fiction is fabrication but I don't believe that to be true. I think writers write to find out what they feel about something, factual or imaginary, and I think every character has a piece of the author within them.

There's "COPS" on in the lobby at my work and the remote's batteries died, so I'm being subjected to something terrible out of my control.

There's a woman(I struggle to call her this instead of "bitch") who comes into the bar my friends and I go to, and sits across the way from us, hating me. I've never met her, and looked up one night to see her giving me the most hate filled incredulous look I'd ever seen. It was truly striking, since this was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on her. I saw her again last night and she started adding snarky comments and eye rolling to the spiteful gazes, as if my very existence offends her at the deepest level. She wants so badly for me to feel badly, and she does not know anything about me other than what I look like. At first her attempts at inflicting pain worked a little bit, I was pissed, and puzzled. Now after seeing her a second time I try my best to laugh at this stupidity and I'm starting to succeed but it's just a reminder of how confusing life can be. How unnecessarily hateful people can be for no reason other than the fact that they are in pain, and do not like themselves. She cannot stand to be in her own skin. She goes out every 10 minutes to smoke cigarettes, I remember when I used to do that, it's a symptom of being constantly uncomfortable. Some people are truly impossible, nay, difficult to have compassion for. She sits there and looks so miserable, I won't let myself be infected with that misery.

Right now the woman that lives in the apartment complex across the street from the work desk I currently sit in is texting me and offering to bring me these pills that I am addicted to. I refuse to give in but regardless I will probably think about it for the rest of the day.

Right now my relationship is in a weird place, I'm unsure of whether it's going to work and that is an uncomfortable place to be, sorta like walking down a staircase in the dark and not knowing how many steps there are and whether you're going to trip and topple down. We get along fine but I still have a sense of something impending and I can't shake it.

The struggles never end, you just have to keep going.

These are the tests we undergo in maintaining our peace of mind. When we think we've found it something will come up to shake us up and make us doubt it. It is how we consciously decide to deal with things. Reacting out of habit is easy, consciousness takes work and it's a job I am going to undertake.

weird poems midday

Whirlwind of apocalypse
sunsets bleeding through
to reveal what's at the center of you
Internal refuge or eternal slumber
if you're brave enough
to embark down under
Bow and crawl
let them nail your hands
Share a smile with yourself
as they shout their demands
Those who go red with shame and rage
won't read the invisible ink
written on this page