live self-determined, die self-determined

i don't care that she apologized or anything. it was gratuitous or whatever you call non-apologies these days. someone carves you up and says oh no! didn't mean to — yeah, sure.

there's this sense of unease because i really am okay inspite of it all, with everything that happened before the apology. and my unease is (once more) with the brightness of summer (here it is again.) i am more or less as wretched, a bit wiser but the same fool. am i taking advantage of someone again? is someone taking advantage of me? is it more than advantage? i hope not. i don't have the stomach for more.

(and lately, my floors are always dirty; there's always something to clean. and there's no insects anymore.)

we were discussing a punishment for if i fail to complete a task. after a lull, i thought about how okay i am with being punished. like yes, it is deserved, and hasn't occurred enough. and then i remembered the tepid unease of Sunday. something feels wrong because nothing is wrong yet. and i am waiting (once more) .

i guess i'm not really sure about a lot of things again. there's this kind of fear that i will never been understood the way i understand. i want so badly for it all to not matter and on some levels, it really doesn't. i do find myself un-caring because I'm wearied of trying to make sense of it all. (I am going to confess something secret to you: I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about here.)

here, let me attempt transparency.

i am, at the moment, being. i feel i have only just recently understood something vital about being. no, not even understood. i feel as though i am beginning to understand — as if i am clutching onto the understanding of it with the tips of my fingers. a fragile hold.

somedays, this hold is threatened. by myself, by someone else — the hold slips. and then — june is ending. a slow reflux of an old acidic hatred spews out of that volcanic cesspit within me. and at the same time, i am unbearably cheerful. i mean, i enjoy it but i am impatient with myself as well. and i'm backed up against the wall, gazing flatly at anyone coming near me. i hate people coming near me. stay back. i am too much for anyone and i accept that.

so the hold is threatened ... by the return of this anger — and this worries me ... even though i have been enjoying an openess with myself .... because

oh . I think I understand what I was trying to make sense of. i was attempting to fathom the patterns of life.

i think i am. i accidentally crushed a tiny snail. i trapped a cicada briefly in my hands because I wanted to admire its wings. and then i killed a small caterpillar because i placed it in a glass and forgot to release it until it was too late.

i still have much to feel guilty about. i was just thinking today about how serious it is that even an insect doesn't like being helpless. if you place a beetle on its back, it struggles. it writhes so much. it will rock back and forth to push itself upright and it will do so over and over. i tormented a junebug today because of how badly i wanted to see its underside. i was curious about the way its legs connect to its thorax — i kept pushing it over on its back and then it would push itself upright right away. eventually, i stopped pushing. i think its a good idea to stop pushing after a while. let creatures be.

lispector she said something about how she is the incessant hammering within herself. that she is aware that she cannot say everything she knows. this made me exhale because i also know this now. i didn't before— i didn't realise that i will never be able to say everything i know. i'm not sure how I feel about it. i just — i just hope when i'm on my back again, i'll be able to push myself up once more.

does that give away how i've lately been anxious? and more than usual. i don't want to die at the moment but i feel like i need a pause. i need to think. i'm a bit tired. june's been a lot, as always.

you know what else irks me. it's as if i haven't been standing knee deep in my chest cavity, bailing out pools of something rotten, rancid for years, flinching if anyone knocks at the door. it's as if i've screamed so long very silently for nothing. god but my arms are tired. i want to rest a moment but the cavity is still flooded and dangerously close to overflow even after so long. i feel ill at the sight of it. i spit at it.

i press my hand against my ribcage and once again i think, perhaps i can starve it out of my body. i think, perhaps i can punish it with grief. i think, perhaps i can give up on bailing it out with a leaky bucket; maybe cut out a canal; carve it out with my bare, blunt claws so that it flows outside sideways between the ribs. i think, perhaps i— what if i simply step on my heart and crush it to stillness like it's just another large and disgusting cockroach.

you might mistake this. you might think, oh she wants a place. no. i'm lost inside my own self. i've been lost for years. i stepped off the path one day and never found my way back. when i speak of homelessness, i have noticed i unconsciously tap my chest because it feels hollow as if it's untethered. i keep trying to find the home of my body by decorating the skin of it. i feel this might help me find my way back; the making of a new path. i believe so much in the goodwill of my memories, as if they haven't ever aged poisonously and turned against me. as if by clinging to motifs with skin and memory, i'll be able to find some new meaning of home. i'm too scared to reach the end of this paragraph. i don't—

i saw a kid measure a cat the other day and then laugh with joy. i got excited; i spoke to her. why were you measuring your cat, i asked. if she knew the answer to this, then there would be some hope for me. she shrugged. she didn't know. her eyes were wide and joyful with innocent abashment and we both looked as the cat leapt upon a sunlit stool and closed its eyes. it was there, but i wasn't. i was the absence of space.