Obviously there’s no end to it, so why not make an end to it? I ask myself four-thousand times a day, yet still I continue to strive for the yesteryears.
I caught sight of a picture I took earlier this year and was captivated. It was like a relation, a close-but-not-quite; confused doppelgänger getting it down to the finest few points save the ones that scream the loudest to me.
Styled hair, trimmed face, bagless eyes and smile. Radiating warmth.
There’s a private sigh, just for you, as the words escape your lips and you realise you’ve lied to the one person you swore you’d never lie to. Even now they hang on the air like poison, surely thunderous in their falsehood.
Whenever I look behind me and see the wreckage, there’s always a sort of solace. I am learned, I am not who I was; my experiences give me strength and ammunition to deal with the future problems I might face. So long as I remember my past I’ll never fail like I did before, because I’ll have faced the things that challenge me at least once before. I’ll know the cheat codes, the shortcuts... I’ll know it’s not permanent. Even in the absence of solutions, hope can be a potent weapon.
At least, that’s how I feel until my fevered mind evolves. Until I face something new. This current bout of endless nothing, where I have to fixate on food, television and distractions just to dull the incessant protestant that is my mind’s tongue; this is new. The screaming silence, where I am alone but for a judgemental narrator. Not sadness, not anger, just a shrieking in my head.
I feel very peculiar right now; I described it as ‘stretched’ but that’s not at all descriptive. I suppose the best way I can put it is that I feel reluctant, burnt out, that I dread the oncoming hours of nothing. It’s all nothing. There’s no point, no goal, no structure. I can’t figure out what the hell my hours are supposed to amount to, what my time is for.
As my mind crumbles and dissolves into a not always lucid soup of mismemories and temporal uncertainty, the oncoming horde of hours cause me nothing but dread. I’ve so much time, and it scares me. I want to rest my eyes, my mind, and never wake again.
There’s a promise idling over the horizon, a promise all broken people live by. If we struggle, and survive, it will get better.
Those of us who have been to the depths of ourselves and bounced back live by this promise because we know there’s a ‘real’ us and a ‘broken’ us. Those of us who have only danced once with our devils, however long, hold on to this promise because it’s the only way to brace our sanity in the face of insurmountable odds.
Stick to the plan, keep fighting, and you will be rewarded. You will find peace, happiness and contentment in a future you’ve yet to reach.
At least, that’s the promise.
Some of us, many of us even, aren’t broken because we lack something, or because we face a trial we struggle with. Some of us, many of us, aren’t broken; or rather, we are who we are, broken because we are broken. Not because we need to be or even can be ‘fixed’. What we are is just a sliver of functional people struggling with a constant swarm of necrotic and parasitic thoughts or pains that wring us dry and drain us. What we are is not something that can be explained to those who aren’t, people, people who cannot easily and reasonably cope with their failings and the demands of day-to-day life.
Because when you reach the mountain-top, and meet the promise, sometimes it will turn to you and say “now this”. The thing you thought that would fix you, would bring you happiness, instead becomes an expectation. A base requirement.
Instead you must climb a new mountain. Instead you must drive yourself onward toward the next thing that will, might, could, fix you. Sometimes there isn’t one achievable goal that can bring you happiness. Sometimes there isn’t actually any achievable goal that can bring you happiness.
Sometimes what you have in your head is just what you are, and always will be.
Sometimes you must endure a moment of discomfort or distress in order to prevent future discomfort and/or distress; truth-telling is a reflection of this, truth must be shared freely lest it poison the well of your relationships forever.
Right foot; left foot. All is familiar and alien both, a loop where to the external nothing has particularly changed but internally, unobserved. everything has. Where once there was song, now there is a dearth of music. Instead there is a greyness to the world, a hollow that threatens to sweep up and eat everything in it’s path. Apathy, personified.
Life now a series of automatic processes. The bulk of which handled by an autopilot deadened to sensation; it’s easy to remark that this is still being alive, whilst bristling at the contemplation of it being life. There has to be more. Right foot. Left foot. One step at a time. Nothing has made sense. Nothing has a rhyme.
turnnoffyourmind
2087
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner