Today My Eyes are Burning, but I Think I'm Okay

I think it's that it's been so hot lately and the sun so electrifying that my eyes start to burn in their socks. It's a dry achy burn that I can only guess is from all the blinding reflection from pavement, buildings, and just everything in general.

I'm okay though, today was busy, but not busy. I feel as if things got done but I'm not sure what because I still have that sense of un-accomplishment in my bones. But it's also almost 6pm which means that nothing would get done even if I tried. Which means that I obviously wouldn't be trying very hard. Which means I didn't really want to try. So in all honesty, I've decided to let go of today and live in the evening and try to just be, with my husband lying on the couch and our dog who's beating herself up with her toys. It's a game for her. She's quite spastic.

I want to work on appreciating these moments. Hot sterile heat. A quiet shallow calm. Just resting on the surface. No one wants to move too much. It's easier and less taxing to be prone, but don't let let your legs touch your own leg. It's a sweat gatherer and it's much more relaxing to be dry.

I have nothing much to say but that. I want to read, but my eyes hurt so much. But that I'll try. Obviously I want to read.

So Mired

I'm am so stuck in my head right now, as if my thoughts were branches just completely drenched in the muck that swims in my skull. And you can't pull them out. You wouldn't even want to because they're old and decaying branches and even if you did try to get one out, only part of it would tear off and it would be a soggy piece of bark that looked and smelled like shit.

I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what to do with my thoughts, my stuckness, my rippingly tense frustrations at me, myself and i and everything else that I want to blame on my un-motivation. My can't think. My too much thoughts. My nothingness and my everythingness that doesn't have an in between. Not yet at least.

I hope.

So I write this. This mired musing which is basically a self-pitying rant at a nothing that appears productive but isn't because I'm just thinking about how sucky this is and the little digits on my computer time clock are slowly increasing at the minute space.

Time going away. Or time coming, same thing. But right now, in the present, I'm not sure what this is all about.

Ah. purge. At least that's something.

My Precious Human Life

I forget how lucky I am to be human. No, I'm being serious. I r
eally forget how rare an opportunity it is to be a capable human being, not capable of everything of course, but capable to walk, talk, run, cook, eat, watch movies, laugh, cry, swim, drink, listen to music... well, to just exist as a human. A lot times I don't want to be a human, a lot of times I think how easy it would be to not exist. So I didn't have to walk the walk, talk the talk, run around, worry about what I eat, watch boringness, and cry. To have to feel so much. I don't mind feeling happiness or joy, but those are rarities too. It's the pain and anger and frustration and beaten down expectations, my own humiliations, embarrassments, guilt, it's all so overwhelming and claustrophobic and suffocating that sometimes I do wish it would stop me from breathing and I can forget all the crap that I worry about doing and not doing.

And then. Occasionally I remember how lucky I am. That I'm lucky all the time. Lucky even when I'm drowning in my own sad blue moods, and whimpering about my own aching pain. Lucky to be able to feel and rise out of it. Lucky to be able to know how special it is to feel joy and warmth because to feel the opposite is so excruciating. Lucky to be grateful for those small moments of joy and try to nurture them. Nurture me in the process.

Yeah, I don't always feel lucky to be human. But in truth, I am always lucky, whether I acknowledge it or not.

Trying to Write Real

So today I’m trying to write. Write for real, that is, which means my words have to have some sort of productivity. A goal at the end of each period. A purpose. A purpose that entails all sorts of spiritual growth, personal discovery, development of compassion, and yeah, it would be great if there were dollar signs somewhere amid all the wonderful self-awareness.

I tried blogging before but it became time-consuming. Mostly because it wasn’t me who was blogging, but Pink Monkey who was writing all the words.

www.pinksockmonkey.wordpress.com

It was hard to be me and her, and not her, and not me, yet still remain coherent amid all the blathering. Pink Monkey is still around, but she’s letting me be me for a while. So at least I can figure out who me is before I become someone else. Or something else, like a monkey. Who’s pink. And made of socks.

Anyways. This is the real me. At least the me not trying to pretend, at least consciously.

What I’m trying to write isn’t actually this blog, but other things that I’ve been wanting to do. A novel, an autobiographical graphic novel, a young adult book based on an idea that was originally for a screenplay. It all sounds very complicated but it isn’t because none of it has been done yet. None of it exists so it’s all actually rather simple.

I need to get the demons out of my head and I’m learning that there’s only so many of them I can purge at my therapist before I run out of money, and only so much I can purge at my husband before we’re sleeping in two separate rooms at night.

I could purge my demons out at our new dog, but as smart as she is, I don’t think she understands. I don’t really want to speak for her, because since we’re still trying to get her to not pee in the condo, I figure she’s not one to focus on the things that I care about. It’s okay though, I still love her like crazy.

Journaling should be easy, but I’ve discovered that as the time gap widens between now and the last time I was in school, handwriting on paper for more than a page is quite exhausting and straining on my hand. Sad but true. This is also a painful reminder of the deterioration of my piano-playing skills.

Anyways. So I’ve decided I’m going to try typing out my thoughts, purging the demons onto my computer and sending them out to the vast world that is the web. I mean the Web, capital W. I could keep them on my computer, because naturally you would think that journaling is private and publishing it online leaves it bare and exposed to all of the humanity who has access to Wifi. But when you think about it, leaving it on my computer is actually more personal, more of a presence of my troubles. My demons will be living and thriving on my sleek MacPro so how will I ever be able to escape them every time I look at the freaking computer screen!

Purging it into the Web makes sense. I’ll free my demons so they get lost in all the online chatter. Gone, whoosh, out into all the 1s and 0s and HTML brackets. And besides, who’s going to read this anyways?