writing is the closest i come to expressing myself.
not fully, not even well most of the time. but
it’s the only way i’ve found to keep my sanity and myself alive.
the jumbled heap thrown out of the bin is methodically untangled.
i shared my words with two people today. i’m not sure if in a day or week or hour i’ll decide to abandon this ground.
(packing up my bin to get re-tangled.
dumping it on fresh land.)
even now, my brain is stunted. i am overthinking and overcompensating for a deficit i’ve created through conceptualization and catastrophic thinking.
worst case scenario? my words are ..
simple, plain, a “false bad” to the psychologists.
meaning i am. if my words are inadequate then i’m inadequate then maybe i’m not really of any quality any worthiness maybe
i am faking.
maybe this reality i’ve constructed is so weak that a breath, a flick of hair, the minuscule tremble from a pin dropping, would turn it to vapor.
i hate hate hate thinking of that night with her, because i refuse to let something so trivial have any significance in my life. But i continue to learn daily how the events of that night and those few days were a microcosmic representation of my life.
my total and complete reliance and trust in people who i’ve grown distant from.
my superiority complex, my externalization, my deepest fear:
being so embedded in falsity that i can no longer see the truth.
living in my fantasy as my true self decomposes.
thinking when writing is to lie with every character, word, sentence you write down.
authenticity is a struggle between romanticization and reality
how can i adore manipulation, lies, honesty, and innocence simultaneously?
how can i cling to both sides while screaming about my inherent goodness?
how can i be good without being simpleminded?
how can i keep my sanity while every day expanding my mind father and
farther until it blooms and withers and dies?
call me fake and i have nothing but proof.
this is confusion that runs so deep that i’m sure the tears that are too confused on when to present themselves and the emotions that have by now congealed into one thick sludge and the physical incompetence and the stunted sexuality aren’t even aware of their deficiency. the electricity has gone out in my head, and the appliances are dead for the moment. hopefully it’ll be on before the house gets too hot.
how can i find solid value in myself when i am constantly preoccupied with the fear that my life is an elaborate lie? how can i share myself honestly if i don’t think anything about me is honest?