Alone again

Do you ever feel alone? I'm sure I'm not the only one, the only one who is alone in feeling alone. We should all form a club of alone people and negate the existence of being alone.

But it's hard when the feeling is there. When you talk to someone and they respond in such a short manner. Short as in "angry" short. Short as in so brief and terse that you're left wondering why they were so short with you when you thought you were being so long, so open, so warm and inviting. Well, obviously not. Apparently I'm not being warm and inviting, neither long nor open. Apparently I was being short too, or mean, or annoying, or bothersome or cruel or something justifiably wrong that would explain the shortness that I received on the other end.

That must explain it.

Obviously I'm feeling alone. Sad. And for some reason I can't explain. It's that sadness when you feel you've done something wrong, made other people not like you. So your whole existence seems like it's sad and wrong so all you can feel is sad and wrong and you try and try so hard to figure out why it suddenly became all sad and wrong so you speculate and speculate and spin and spin around in your head so you're even crazier that you were before if that was even possible and now all you're left with is even more sadness and wrongness and an even deeper darker shade of blue. Of blue. Of a sad timid whispering blue.

Things really aren't so bad. I step outside myself. Tell myself to get out of my head, because that's what I'm supposed to do. When I start crazy-making in this great big noggin of mine, I've been told that it's just no longer safe. The best thing to do is step out of it. Focus on something else. Change my environment. Be aware of the present. Just anything that will stop that sucking deep down into the whirlwind of thought. Crazy thoughts. All jammed packed together in a tsunami of aloneness. Feeling alone.

And like I said, things aren't so bad. I actually got a good amount of decent writing done today. Writing towards the stuff I really want to do, you know. Words and rhymes and characters and times. All those things that I want to get down on page. And I read them out loud! Craziness enough for today all ready. Seriously.

I guess things will never be easy. Are they ever? It's all a state of mind, and if my mind is going to be as porous and concrete as it is, well, it's better to not expect anything at all.

But that can be dangerous too, can't it?

Quickly, now

I've forgotten so many things this morning. And not like the random, "where're my keys? have you seen my glasses?" kind of thing. But repeating stories to my husband, forgetting what belongs where, putting the leash on the dog only to discover that I didn't actually put the hook around the ring so she really didn't have the leash on her after all. Brain farts. Many more than normal for my anal-retentive nature. Even my husband seemed concerned, kept asking me if I was okay. I guess I am. I'm alive, breathing, moving, can't want for food, water, shelter or clothing. So of course I'm okay. On the mental front though, who knows. I've had my fair share of medication. More than what I'd prefer which would be never had any at all. But oh well.

This morning in bed I heard my husband get up and go into the next room. Then I heard him exclaim, "Oh Crap!" When he came back into the bedroom I asked him if everything was okay. He was like, yeah, why? "Because I heard you say 'oh crap.'" He said, "I never said anything."

Hmmm, was it the crazies or just dream-fog? Again, who knows. It wasn't as comforting an experience as the other night when I swear I heard people talking in the next room until my husband and I realized that our little doggie was just snoring in her crate. And you have to realize this is a rare occurrence, because she NEVER sleeps, if not for barely a minute. And then I'll move my arm and she'll wake up and look at me to find out what I'm doing. God, I love her. So that was a sweet hearing-misunderstanding. Not voices in my head like this morning.

I feel scattered. My husband told me to just take it slow today. You mean, not be my normal frenetic self? But that's who I am!

Okay, I'll try to slow down today. For the sake of everyone else around me at least.

Here I am now

In this land of opportunity, city of summer, and house of light. This is my home.

Then why do things make me so sad? Why does chance and existence become some sort of meshed-up mind ball, tangled, roped, and to the point of almost writhing in my socks, up my legs and disguising itself as one of the knots in my hair.

Maybe because I don't brush my hair. Well, occasionally I do, when I can't put it in a normal ponytail. When it's become a natty black marshmallow that I'm trying to condense into a liquid string. When it becomes embarrassing to be around me in public.

Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be around me in public.

I frustrate my self. Cravings, desires, wantings and not wantings. Wanting to be able to do everything and nothing all at the same time. Laziness and frenetic-ness all wrapped up like crazy. Crazy glue. How the hell do you get it off?

So I need to really start writing. Working on something, anything, just to keep moving forward. And what will it accomplish? A sense of pride? Maybe. But it will be a little something. Baby steps, as they say. It's hard to move forward. It's easier to stay behind. To complain and moan and gripe, to loll around in misery and stagnancy. Stagnancy stinks. Literally and figuratively. Sitting here stinks.

I want to write something but I don't know what. So I'm writing this. Sitting here, fuming in my stagnancy stink and trying to find the motivation to do. To move. Forward. Something. Anything. What, though. Words, letters, symbols. I yearn to study again. I yearn to talk, to communicate, to learn, to feel the forward motion of all the breaths around me that are heading in the same direction.

But when it's just me here, it's just me. Just my breath, my sighs, my uncertainty. I am alone. In my head. Unsure of where to go. What to say. So I say this. All this stuff that's typed onto this floating page in the system of binary 1's and 0's. The magic web.

I need to regurgitate and fill myself with a new food. An undiscovered food. Something I haven't tasted before. A new recipe. I will devise it, imagine it, create it. Bake it, broil it, stew it, toss it. Share it with the world. Hey! Look at this! Not only is it beautiful, but it tastes delicious too! Come and see! Please, come and have a taste.

I do this literally, the regurgitation. But not the sharing. I need to change it over to my real life. The one that is the real me. Not the hiding me, the pretending me, the mask that is not me. I need to make metaphors with my metaphors, so that I really do exist. So that my breath is the only thing I need to propel forward.