Anxiety

Maybe that's something anxiety's good for: writing stories.  Through this anxiousness I create alternate histories, whether I would like to or not.  I worry about how life will turn out though I don't let myself think I'm worrying.  I dwell on what the past wasn't and what it could have been, knowing full well that I can't change it.

What if the colonists and the natives were able to live in peace together?  What if the West had sailed to the East?  What if families weren't forced to convert or die?  What if Constantinople hadn't been able to remember his dream?  What if Hitler found a peaceful solution?  What if Palestine was given equal support as Israel?  What if Gorbachev had not torn down the wall?  What if Yugoslavia remained united?  What if Scotland had gained independence?  What if everyone had voted in the last election?  What if there was a solution to equality in voting precincts?  What if gerrymandering didn't exist?  What if everyone had an equal voice?  What if there was no ice bucket challenge?  What if Kanye didn't interrupt Taylor?  What if Taylor Swift chose a different career path?

What if I don't pass field?  What if I have to live in Texas for an extra year?  What if I have to find a way to pay for school?  What if I don't finish my homework?  What if I quit my job?  What if I am unable to show that I'm ready to return to my internship?  What if they won't let me change to a different location?  What if I really am broken?  What if there's no cure for this life?  What if I'm so needy that I can't live alone?  What if something happens to my parents?  What if people see my weaknesses?  What if I'm more than just naive.

What then?

Some might be prompts for prose while others just seem to prolong the pain.

Metaphoric Escape

I'm an iceberg on the sea.  Perhaps, if you're not paying attention, your ship will run aground in me.  I'm cold and sitting all alone.  The deeper you dive, the more you'll know.

I'm a seagull flying South for Winter.  If you look close enough you'll see my splinters.  With every flap of my wing, the pain it grows deeper.  So I cover it up and hope to find fresh fields, not become a lifelong sleeper.

I'm a calf just born to her mother and father.  Lead me to greener pasture.  Tell me that your care will endure.  Old MacDonald comes and takes you away.  "More meat, more milk," he mumbles to himself.  "More loneliness, more isolation," are the thoughts that pull me off to sleep, ever so slowly. As another cow jumps over the moon, I think of the inevitable, "I too will be gone soon."

I Need Someone to Walk Alongside Me Vol. I

I need someone to walk alongside me.  Not occasionally.  Not every now and then.  I need someone here every moment of every day.  Though I know that that's not reasonable.  It's not a realistic request.  Some may say it's metaphoric but it feels like so much more.  What do I do about this?  Where do I go?

I'm supposed to find out what this means to me but how do I define something that took long enough to find?  It means what I've said: I just need someone to walk with me.  Someone I can talk with.  Someone I can rely on.  Someone I can be myself with.  Why do I need someone else?  Why can't I be myself by myself?  Why am I not content to be me?  I don't need anyone else.  I don't want to define myself in someone else.  I want to live a life alive.  What do I do?  What's next?  What do I do here?

I'm stuck.  I'm stuck because the good days, the good moments, they tell me they're not real.  They tell me that I'm not doing enough.  I tell them what I'm feeling and they say it's not enough.  They say I'm not working on myself enough.  So, now what?  I'm trying, aren't I?  I know that it's getting to be so intellectual that the emotions are so far removed, but aren't emotions just that, feelings?  I can't live my life being pushed by every which wind.  It seems like I'm doing that to a certain extent but it's not enough.

So, now what?

An Organized Mess

Anankastic.
Flabbergastic.
Spastic.
Elastic.

I'm a box.
Don't put me inside.

There are things I enjoy.
Don't put me inside.
There are struggles I have.
Don't put me inside.
I'm a nuisance,
a helping hand,
an organized mess.

I am not the thoughts in my head.
I am not the crumpled sheets on my bed.
I am my toes to head,
the inside and out.

I am not destruction
nor reconstruction.
I'm not a metaphor,
a prison door,
or all the broken pieces
laying on the floor.

I'm the in-between
and that's okay.

The Cracks Speak

Allow me please to speak from my head.  From the fractures in my skull that are so concerned with control that they cause me to nearly spin out every day.  Perhaps there is nonsense, undoubtedly there are falsifications, but they are getting so restless that I must let them escape lest they bury themselves further inside and lead to my own demise.

When was the last time you killed yourself?  The last time you died?  Are you awake while you're living, or have you just managed to survive?  I'm a fly on the window, a bug on the wall.  I'm a man in pajamas walking hastily through the mall.  I'm a dancer in high heels unprepared for the fall.  I'm a broken church window made with stained glass and all.

I've got nothing to say here but I found a new soapbox.  I've got nothing to say here but I have an audience so I'll say it.  If there is an ear then it will listen to my words.  I've got nothing to say but I can spin it passed the absurd.  No one will believe me until their guard is down, but that's when I sneak in and press far beyond what initially is found.

I'm a broken wing on a butterfly.  No one can deny my external beauty.  I've become dysfunctional but don't tell me.  I'll keep trying.  My nerve endings still have something in them.  I still feel something.  I'm boiling over, a pot ready to explode. I'm convulsing like a seized patient on his near-death bed.  I'm a bedpan that has spoiled.  I'm a guest who has overstayed his welcome and I'm oblivious to my inconsiderateness.

I'm a hard boiled egg that doesn't get the yolk.  I'm a chicken that hasn't hatched but somehow is standing.  I'll admit to my existence but won't tell you where I've come from.

I'm a frature on the wall and the wall is your head.  Your head is your mind though wish it was dead.  I'll work to "improve" you with these delusions that I've said.  If you listen real closely, you'll see that I too I'm dead.

I won't admit to my decaying but my tissues are eroding.  I won't tell you I'm dying, though my bones are corroding.  I won't tell you that I'm setting the fuse for the bomb that's exploding.

I'll just give you the impression that with knowledge I am loading, your brain and your body.  And you'll be better for it one day, just trust me through the groaning.  You will not explode, you've got space to spare.  You are not too busy and this load you mustn't share.

Don't worry about you, it's for the people you must care.
Forget about your needs, there are resources to share! 

Are you confused?

Take some time to make a rhyme.  To fall in and out of time.  Life is the most lucid of all my dreams. I remember everything and nothing at the same time.  All I feel is exhausting.  The words that I speak make no sense.  All that I'm doing is beyond understanding.  Anything you comprehend is on you via me.  That's enough for now.  Are you confused yet?