Extraordinarily Ordinary

5/25/2022

I’ve had the urge to write recently, and have found some form of motivation to do so. Each time I write though, I find myself getting so lost in my own head.

Things haven’t been making a lot of sense lately, my thoughts and feelings are just disjointed fragments floating in an endless cloud of thick honey; function is just a series of discouraging attempts in which I swim through the murky fog trying to pick up the pieces.

I just feel so tired, and so worn down.

It is my responsibility to change my life and circumstance but by god, wouldn’t it be so nice if I could pass that off to someone?

What a fantasy, that somehow I would stumble upon some noble benefactor who might give me enough peace of mind to rest, to grieve, to heal; a fantasy indeed, and distinctly irresponsible to hope for.

.

There exists a knowing.

I know what I need, what to do, and how to do it.

I know what is real, what is likely, and what is foolish.

I know. But that “knowing” feels so distant, so false.

The “knowing” exists outside of the place I have stored myself. I see it, but it is not with me.

I am in some dark little pocket, insulated from the world hiding from what is and what could be.

And so, though there is a “knowing” there is no will.

.

So I choke and die and atrophy.

Wasting away in my own mind.

.

I cannot read my writing these days, (even my journals) because they feel too far away.

Everything feels so far away.

I must have locked myself in that little pocket one day in hopes that it would protect me, but somehow (as I am prone to do) lost the key.

.

.

(Must I lose everything again? to grow?) (Should I reduce myself to the lowest form of being, raze it all to the ground and play the fiddle as it burns? Is there another way?) (There is another way but it would be so bitter and so hard, could I (could you?) withstand it?)