HyperbolicCatastrophe

May the fierce be with you.

     Each day she grew colder. More accepting of the fact that she was truly alone. In her silence, she found a sense of peace. The quiet gave her slightly elevated feelings just beyond that of pure apathy. It was here that she found comfort.      There was no sense in language. She could speak with her eyes alone, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even move as his dry hands ran the length of her body, moving over every bump, every detail with purpose. She could feel the cold blade against her thigh. She bit her lip in anticipation of the pain. She knew he wasn’t finished with her - he’d barely even begun.      She could taste blood in the back of her throat. Likely, she thought, from the small pieces of glass he’d snuck into her food the evening before. It may have been from his hands around her throat this afternoon; she’d been so careless in greeting his sister, after all. She knew better than to address her without being asked to.      “No...” she thought to herself, “It was the glass. It had to be.” Of this she was now certain. She remembered how she’d usually end up with bruises and throat pain from his grip, but rarely blood.

    I often think to myself: “There may not be enough crazy glue in the world to fix what has been broken.”      I’ve never really understood what it means to “get out of my own head.” I can’t meditate - never been able to. How is it that I’ve lived this long, yet not once have I known the sweet bliss of clearing my mind?      Lately, I’ve been finding it difficult to get excited about much of anything. That seems a strange thing to write, as I have high level anxiety, but that also depends on one’s own ‘personal definition’ of excitement.      What I mean to say is that as of late, I am without passion. For anything. I often wonder how people stay so motivated. I used to have a great deal of energy, drive - a motivation to go out and make things happen. I had life by the throat, and I loved it. Could it be possible that it is something as simple as old age?      As though a person’s “Joiu De Vivre” can slowly abate over time? That would mean that one of life’s cruelest, age old cliches is actually true: As you grow old, you become boring.      Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things that I want out of life. However, lately I just don’t have the motivation to pursue any of them. That’s pretty sad...isn’t it? I’d say that’s a clear sign of depression.      A lot of this is my own doing. I am the “master of my own demise” so to speak. I need to learn when NOT to say things. I really just need to stop myself from talking, from time to time. So often, far too often, I find myself regretting the things I’ve said. We’re talking, immediately after...or even as it happens.      It’s similar to an out of body experience. It’s like I can see and hear myself being cruel, but I can’t do anything to stop it. All I want to do is shake myself and say “Wake up, you idiot! You’re fucking everything up again!” I do know, however, that I at least have the ability to keep it in check. I’ve done it in the past, and I think I’m beginning to remember how.      When I have little to nothing to do, I kind of lose my mind. I need structure in my life, no matter how much I try to shrug it off. I need purpose. Even something as simple as a crappy, minimum wage job. I just need somewhere to be every day. I need to be needed.      Going out for walks, creating art, spending time with friends, reading and  most of all writing.Those things bring me as close as I think I’ll ever get to “getting out of my own head.” To truly meditating.      It’s really the only way I think I’ll ever stop myself from feeling like a mouse stuck in a cage, and blurting things out that I truly don’t mean. The need for self-reflection has been incredibly strong lately, and I suppose it’s time to get motivated.

Audre Lorde

Sometimes I wonder whether or not other people see the world the same way that I do. Obviously I know that it isn’t possible to see things ENTIRELY the same, given things such as mental illness, but every now and then I wonder if they even see the same sunset each evening.

Today’s inspiration: I’ve been trying to write more poetry that can be easily converted into song lyrics. Who better to use as my inspiration, than the queen of poetic lyrics? If only I had even a percentage of the talent that Kate Bush has.

Started an anonymous Tumblr for some of my writing samples. Mostly rough drafts. I’m always open to constructive criticism. Needless to say... I’ll tumble for ya.

This isn’t you, sad eyes. Where did you disappear to?

gee, thanks

#riotgrrrls #kathleenhanna

Insides, outside Under thumb Am I pretty? Are you angry? Muddle through Patience, dear Time is a liar