Into the Sea · nothing makes sense
There’s a hole in the ground. A perfect cylinder with smooth dirt walls. I drag my hand along the wall; the earth is rich, moist and dark.
On a good day I can see the sky above. It doesn’t seem that far away. I might still get out of here. On a bad day all I see above me is a pinhole of light. It’s so distant there’s no point to even thinking of getting out. The soil I am standing on saturates with water and turns to mud. My feet begin to sink, inch by inch I am wasting away.
I am standing in an empty tunnel. My body casts a long shadow on the floor—yet there’s no light. I make out the arc of the tunnel’s ceiling, I follow its outline, it stretches far into nothing — growing into an endless cascade of hollow rock.
I look down and the floor has turned translucent. It’s dark but my eyes are illuminated by my desire to make sense of this vision. It’s all in my head, I know, but it’s so real. So bleak and full of despair. I don’t know if I am tired or alert. I can hear the wind howling, throwing itself at the rock face. It’s trying to get to me. What does it want? To whip my face with rain? To soothe a humid body with a cool and gentle breeze? To sweep me away from the hole I’ve dug?
Thursday, 17. February, 2011 · The Mind
Your heart is warm, your mind is free and there’s an inkling of happiness twitching within.
An influx of activity washes over you.
This might actually turn out alright, you know.
The world and I are not getting along. I mean, we’re working things out but it’s taking a damn long time, or so it seems. Am I writing just to… oh, I don’t know — why am I writing? Thoughts never translate well to paper in my experience. However constructive they appear, as neurons fire, there’s a barrier present. I know what it is now, though. It’s expectation. That whatever I write has to be something special. But none of it is.
“No worthwhile thought shall pass through these hands!”
I’ve written this before. I repeat myself a lot. It might be because I’ve successfully gotten this shit out of my brain and onto a hard drive before. It’s something I know how to do. These new and exciting thoughts that make me a better person, a more focused person are entirely new to me. If I have trouble doing them, how am I supposed to be able to write about them?
New and exciting to me, entirely old and uninteresting to you. You’ve been doing it for a long time. I’m just getting started. Every little task is an Everest of thought.
The world outside my tiny apartment scares me. Venturing out in public is an ordeal I’d rather not have to deal with. Whenever I do I feel judged and surveilled. I feel like I’m trespassing. I tense up, look mean, stare straight ahead. I walk with a purpose — to do what I have to and get away as quickly as possible. All the while afraid someone will notice me. It’s an ever present feeling of dread; I’m expecting to be called out. Singled out. At any moment.
It’s been like that since I was a kid. My first memory of social anxiety goes back to 1990. At certain points in my life it’s been easier, at other points worse. It’s pretty bad now.
There’s something shimmering down there beneath the surface. Its lustre draws my eyes closer. I feel there’s something to be unearthed there. Something to treasure, something to keep close to my heart. I can’t quantify it nor feel its mass. A beautiful concept is waking beneath the water. I desperately want it. I need it. I can feel it inside my head, crawling around, whispering to me.
Whatever aspirations come to you will never reach fruition. There’s no release, no sense of completion. Only fractured pieces evaporating before you are able to see them clearly. Your mind is blank, unable to think of anything. Your eyes slip out of focus and there are no thoughts other than the one fueling your fingers. There is no past, no future, only a desperate present looking for something to cling on to. If only a glimmer of a thought could sustain you, at least for today. A temporary fix to an eternal quandary that seems to never perish.
When you’re feeling up, you’re too preoccupied with realizing you’re doing alright to make anything of it. When you’re feeling down, there’s nothing at all. No thoughts, no dreams, no hope, only a seething need to distract yourself.
I’ve heard the clamor of Church bells
I’ve heard the jangle of Christmas cheer
And the voice of my Grandmother saying I’m a free man.