if I were to say that im slowly getting back to my groove it’d sound way too repetitive.
and also a lie, because this, specifically, wasn’t really part of it before. but the whole point is going back to - making, creating, regurgitating it out out out someway. anyway.
and again, it’s not the first or second or third time that I can’t help the instinct to memorialise it, record it if only in a picture on a post. but again- I come on here spouting about how I’m finally, fucking finally creating again thinking now its solved, now it’s done and I’m back to being a creative creating creature just to get knocked against the wall one more time the day after.
how is it a groove if the motions aren’t continuous? am I still expecting inertia to get me moving, get me feeling? the fear still crawls from my gut to my chest my throat way too fast most times.
I ask myself, what does it feel like to walk around with an open chest wound all the time?
there’s no-one to answer back. hollow vessel. how can I feel so much and so little all of the time? head full body empty. or is it the opposite? I don’t know anymore.
How do you visualise your brain? an empty attic. dark and unvisited for many years. eras. eons.
always exposed. how do the two collide? there’s no connection. no thread to pull through, no bridge to cross over. all and nothing.
just another dichotomy thrown in the tornado. the extremes and the flexibility. but the border is the edge but also the pathway. it’s how you crossover. but never really doing it?
afraid of pulling yourself in full. digging deep and diving through.
am I still a coward? why did I think I had left it behind. scared animal, hiding with its legs between its tail.
how can I not be living when I still feel so much all of the fucking time?
talvez se não fosse tanto uma realidade impossível eu não seria tão obcecada.
which could mean EVERYTHING
ANYTHING
it hurts to think. it’s painful letting words out. phisically pushing my guts out. only my hands as tools. grabbing skin and muscle with my chubby fingers, trying to grasp and tear. see what’s inside. smell it, taste it on the tip of my tongue like some unknown dish. chew on it, digest and try to regurgitate it into something meaningful. honest. explanatory most of all. like if I put all my organs veins guts and neurons out on a table, then I can sort it out like a puzzle and it will all make sense.
I’ll make sense of myself. the years are long and I still feel like I don’t know you whole. always unchartered depth. more grave to be dug, hole deeper still to be cut.
feels kinda bottomless. no matter how deep you go it won’t be deep enough, never reaching the end of the line. just keep going going going. chewing, biting, poking my finger in the wound to see how much it can hurt.
today’s was such a slow labor and the size and weight of the guilt feel kinda fruitless now after how clearly it came to be. came to me.
I can see the next steps
the next parts
The next chapters…
but the world is slow to move.
and whenever the speed increases, I freeze.
the emotional puking that was today with almost- well. not really, anymore. painstakingly done after a whole day running around and it was such a balm not only to look at the the sparkles and sprinkles that had been shared around unknowingly, but to see it slowly taking shape.
do you still live in the same town you grew up in that.
I’ve grown up and grown old in so many different places. the trees always (never) look normal because my compass doesn’t know where home is.
four different cities before I even knew how to read and write. seven years living halfway around the country. no friends during my formative years. most of my teen years where I was born but had no memory of except for few and far vacation days.
I know I’ve outgrown this apartment I’ve been living in for the past eight years but letting go and moving feels like ripping myself apart. the closest I’ve had to home even if it never really felt like my own.
a cancer mercury in the house of friendships and community with the curse of having never found a home (so far).
and I’m done wasting my time trying to explain it. trying to make it seen but not bare. even still I’m not baring my teeth. holding on with all i have trying to suppress. and still? STILL?
I see hunger but it ain’t like mine. I don’t know what feeds them. I can’t see. everything else is crystal clear - I see her but not that. gotta check that they’re vegetarian first.
might just be hitting the wrong target with the teething tantrum. but, yet. still, although.
no one I can really trust (not like that). No one that has ever really dared to dig deep whole hand in all the way to the elbow dripping drenched in all the bits and pieces of my mended flesh. prickly bones collecting paper cuts on all your soft parts, burn that’s barely there anyhow.
I just wanna be food and be fed. why can’t it be both? when will it be both? and is there even any one out there actually like that within realistic range? - I am never doing long distance again.
