For many days thus feeling has come over me, I do not feel as if I am me. I feel a if I am spectating on my own life, I look in the mirror without a care, its barely me, that sits in there. It is me though, I cannot grasp, this simple fact, beyond the glass. I look, I stare, again and again, but no connection comes from them. I am just viewing what my eyes are seeing, 3rd person in my own head, a distant sense, but not one of distorted depth, but that of a barrier of unknown thickness between myself and it. I am here but I am not, I am only viewing what I myself, or whoever, is doing. I look around and feel astray, it’s all so close, but yet so far away. My surroundings are so familiar but so benign, I am just a stranger in my own mind. Part of me knows what’s around me, the other is lost in a daze, what is all this, everything is in a haze. All I hear are muffled sounds, as if a pillow covered a speaker, the sound, always drowned. I drink, not because I am thirsty, but because something tells me to, I do not taste it, but am only told how it is. An artificial sense of what is actually there, I am trapped inside of myself, but before I get out, why am I in here? Can I be let out? When did this cage come down over me, I feel as if I am controlling a surrogate from afar with all sensations dulling more by each mile from which they came. How did this happen? When did I become embodied in myself? Why am I specating my life away? How am I supposed to react to what’s going on in me, I do not know, why? If I knew how to react maybe it would help, but until then I am in the middle of nowhere lost, no surprise. Who is the real me, is it this person I live in, or is it me who is talking now? Double-processing every movement, you are uncomfortable, I’m moving you’re leg, my leg is moving, like two separate minds. Why is this happening? It all seems very odd to me, I do not know, the more I think about it the more apparent it becomes. I do not understand it but I follow, there is no other choice. In my own body I have one, but I don’t; a voice, because the one I keep reacting to, to me, is an unknown device.
I sit staring out the bus window, the bus shaking as it seemingly hobbles along, the road a blur, all noise drowned out by the music of the generation. Headlights like fireflies speeding around the turn in the opposite lane; lines of fireflies, as long as the eye can see. Or just maybe, as long as the road permits. A never-ending stream, old ones pass only to be instantly replaced by new ones from the opposite end. Inside of a bus filled with friends and acquaintances, yet I prefer the mesmerizing scene of the outside world. Finding peace and calm in this industrialized scene of ironic beauty. Cars rushing, passing, busy people. Yet me, in this rock of a bus, unaffected by it all; leisurely strolling through a group of hustled cubicle dwellers in the race to get home to their families who remain unchanged in the two minutes they gain. Serenity in a calamity, my own mental utopia, completely lost in the scenery of these moments. As if, as it is to me, this outside world is perfect; and this inside world, revolting, permeated with a musty sense of rejection and the absence of any care in the world; Minus the song that is currently blasting into my ear helping me push off reality ever so easily, that has caught the attention of one of these drowned out characters surrounding me. Only a slight interruption from this makeshift dream work I call a window. If they only saw what I do through this window, their head may have stayed to admire in awe. But like a hawk it came what it got for and left, back into this bus of shadows that I gladly felt were separated from me. Or is it me that may as well have been the shadow? Would it matter? No, it would not, almost nothing could make this better. I heard none of what was going on around me, but utterly did not care. Those moments are perfect; I wish I could live there. For during these moments nothing else matters, until we arrive home, then my false reality shatters. Back to real life, dream-time over, this plate of realization served cold, on a platter. The shadows move and rise, hurrying off like the hamsters controlling the cars. Me, sitting still, looking up, sadly, no stars. Music off, reality back, and to a new melody I adhere to; the sound of my breaths, for now, still coming in twos.
All emotions, I can reach out and touch, grasp with my hand the feeling of them, experience them; all except happiness. Think sad, I become sad; think angry, I become angry. Think happy, this feat I have yet to attain. Like trying to grab a bar of soap, never grasping the real thing. Happiness; what I want the most is in my head, nonetheless, it eludes me whenever possible, and abandons me at the slightest opportunity. Everything becomes dull, colors less full, as if faded by the sun. Or at least for some reason it feels that way. Everything has less meaning, nothing really matters. If I won the lottery I doubt this feeling would change. I sit in this room, computer screen glowing, surrounded by clutter, with almost a sense of tunnel vision as I glare down at this pen and paper. My face heavy, as if there were a weight hanging from the bottom of my chin’ cheeks feeling stretched down over my bones. Distraught, over what, is clear to me, but why it comes to affect me now is simple, realization of the thing I want most being unattainable.
But yet how quickly moods change is a seemingly un-explainable reason; one that could very well perplex any modern day genius. Our minds many times not knowing how or why or what caused this change, but only that it happened. This factor can well be described as “something”. A vague, tasteless description at that, but it is a description nonetheless. But yet this “something” is a variable in itself. And by replacing a variable with the like, we end with the same; a variable. At best this is a submittence to the unknown admitting unknowingness, ironically, with a definition. Is giving this unknown a description what allows us to not ponder as heavily as we would have if we blatantly stated that we did not know? Does giving a name to what we do not know allow us an allusion of expressing what we do not know in away that can be explained and universally understood?
But yet how many faces this “something” has, I’ll leave it at this; for I do not want to deal with what the problem really is because, I know, chances are I will lose. And knowing that is the same as admitting defeat, but with and added loophole, that we never tried, or did so to the best of our ability.
An urge, for what although is not clear. Anger; the drive behind this urge. This urge needing somewhere to go, yet, it has run into a wall. Aggravating, boiling escalating ever more. A mind of another which cannot comprehend basic ideas or principles. Two different levels of thinking. The lower of which cannot comprehend the basic ideas and thoughts of the greater, despite clear and functional explanations. This utter stupidity (for lack of a better term) proposes no other solution than a slew of terms related in the way of a common base; anger, aggravation, annoyance; a thesaurus list being more descriptive. All thinking becomes vehement, all thought or emotion or speech, nothing is absolved from this. This could turn a smile into a raging fore on the face of the pope. These same feelings also being attained by trying to unsuccessfully assemble any arsenal of products whose instruction manual topples 5 pages (This connection being made for comparison). All of this feeling but with nowhere to go. Would one explode? Sending these harsh actions from this mind into our world? Or will it stay and boil until it becomes too volatile to be safe? The second of these two being the more troublesome. It could be compared to missiles vs. nuclear weapons. Missiles being more numerous but less dangerous, and a nuclear weapon, is comparatively less numerous, and much more utterly devastating. The minds that render these two solutions lack one thing, a pressure release valve.
And yet, amazing how one’s mood can affect their view of the world, be sad and watch everything go downhill. Foods taste less, colors less vibrant, everything dulled down. Yet be happy and watch everything flourish, jokes become funnier, life becomes faster, things become good. And yet, still there is this place in the middle (as referenced from earlier). But yet it feels different than before. No emotion, no happiness, yet no sadness. Complete silence. Peace. Not one interruption during this absence, the only sound being heard being that constant minute buzz in your ear that one always hears in complete silence. It feels as if everything is slowed. In a room with no moving parts, it seems as if time has stopped. No sound, no motion, just me alone in the universe. A sense that all else even the tiniest of beetles is frozen in this state. As if I am the only thing moving in the universe. So quiet, so peaceful, nothing else needs to matter. All wants, all worries frozen in this altered state. No love, no hate, now want, and no worry. Not alone, not together, just plain, simple, being. All feels different, as if your surroundings were replaced with the same things they are now. Each movement noticed, each breath felt, every sound heard. Peace.
A blank mind, a blank slate, calming. A digressing dive from a day of excitedness and a never stopping mind. Our minds are not like a frictionless bike, they can be burned out with overuse, but if this is offset by blankness I do not mind. A state where tapping a pen against a surface is sufficient to enthrall the mind. Being content with nothing. A great feeling, only fitting pay for a restless, never-ending da. All seems to float away without a care. A blank mind finds it hard to think of what to write, and I’ll leave it at that.
Poem(How scattered thoughts can be, too many at once, or one taking up all your time. So clouded, so cluttered, I must organize. But what goes where, how do I categorize, I don’t, I can’t? But alas I try. So much, so many, like a paparazzi of the mind. But when I bid look for them they all seem to hide. My, how much goes on in this brain of mine.)
After all this time I came to realize some odd things. One; I find it hard to visualize the 20’s in living color, all my mental images of the time being largely black and white. It never struck me as odd or abnormal, as if I never questioned the false fact that those times actually took place in black and white. And yet with what difficulty I find it today, to picture the present in black and white. Now the reasons behind why this is are known to me, it just strikes me that it took this long to realize this. Its as if I blindly accepted without any question, not so much without question as without realization. After all this my mind goes back to blank. It seems to match the color of the white walls. Then again, ai could compare the likeness of my thoughts to that of my wall. Largely blank, but accepting anything that gets put onto it. So blank with a lot of stuff that I choose to surround myself with. With the majority of the things being somewhat meaningful to me, with some random stuff that seems rather interesting. The more “posters” I put on the wall, the more cluttered it gets. The harder it becomes to remember what’s from where and the details of it. But this is where the two main characters of this idea diverge. A mind can never be full to capacity, it can be cluttered, even too cluttered in some cases, but never filled to capacity. And if a room were a brain, the poster would be everywhere, some under the bed, over corners, overlapping each other. This, obviously is not fit for your average norm of a room, but is basically ideal for any given brain. Plus, we can’t remove our memories, a function that at least I, wish I came programmed with.
Poem(A gentle leaf, floating to the ground, a new home it finds as it makes its way down. It is a way of life for these leaves to lead, yet how much unsafe this new world can be. Once up in the heavens admired and envied, now down in the gallows, stepped on, a nuisance, how scary, this new place must be.)
Alone, a dull darkness accompanied by one dull light, like that of a bunker deep below ground. I feel as if I am a prisoner in my own home. The day is late, late enough to be called the next day. Alone, no contact to the outside world, in this hazy light of my bunker, otherwise known ad my room. No living sounds, only those of what lifeless things surround me. Time fades away, it does not matter. I have been here all day. What new hope will tomorrow bring? What will change but the setting in the outside world, while I still sit here severed from all else. Alone, desolate, desperate, the three keys that unlock the exactness of this feeling of my mind. These three opening the door to this low, depressing place, my physical; my mental bunker. Looking through its musty air one could not help but see despair, and something undeniably bleak about all and everything. Why not open the door and leave, one may ask. The door is just a useless facet that gives one last hope that not all is lost. For open the door, you will find no change, and then there will be no excuse. Instead of being solely inward, it will be both the trapping of the mind and rejection by all that lay outside of it, and once that has been attained, there is no hope of savior. Once that has happened the bunker, the world, becomes darker. It is a one way ticket to self destruction, no, that would not be the correct term. To self imprisonment, where the bunker is everywhere you go. The bunker becomes your world. If one had a soul, this cycle abolishes it. For here, is not a place one would want to call home. Yet, as long as there is that one dim light, there still may be hope, yet it may be difficult to find. The light must have a source, but how could one travel through the wire to find it, it many times seems impossible.
And through this wire, there are many quirks and jumps to follow it. It seems that one can always find something to hinder this journey. It is a sort of equilibrium, with its constant set below happy or most of the time, even content. When becoming happy with one aspect another crumbles to the ground. Given fifty dollars we will always look at how we lost the other hundred. No matter what is perceived as good, it will inevitably lead to something else looking bad. It is this, that not only hinders one’s journey through the wire, but which creates the musty, spoiled, dense air that obscures the light. It is never perfectly clear, never vibrant in its radiance. It is as if a lit cigar was left unattended for too long. And many times, one thing, can make all else seem dull, one small, simple thing can turn into the smokiest cigar, and make everything else obscure. Yet, never the less, the light is always there, behind it all, never wavering in its brilliance.
The worse part is that no matter how long we’ve been around the smoke our lungs never get used to it. Our tolerance does not grow. We still cough at every whiff, still squint when in its presence. No matter how familiar we may feel with it is always the same. I envy those whose lungs become hardened to it, and those who it never seemed to bother, because for me, whenever it comes, it never wavers.