mandala destroyed by the sea
feeling ill is so specific. the dry throat, clenched neck/jaw contraction. shoulder throb, thick, consistent nausea. if only just the physicality of nausea took me over, but the emotional, the disgust
"I've been sleeping so strange at night, with a head full of pesticides"
i'm not quite sure what to do with myself anymore. quite honestly. i stare at my collection of seven chapsticks, my folded clothing and intricate hospital corners. this is the brief alleviation. removing one brick off of my chest at a time. placing them slowly on the ground next to me so perhaps, over time, a wall between me and this inexorable darkness will be built. something solid that comes between us to guarantee we never see each other again.
but what ignorance, sorrow is everything, right? change intrinsic, life is suffering. ok, i accept, life is suffering, but that just brings me full circle, questioning my existence on this planet and whether or not i would ever bring more life to this planet. if only i could think smaller.
thats when i get in to minute details. filed nails and precision. tiny, immaculate handwriting. clear, intentional steps on the elliptical. this feels like a crisis, like i know no matter where i am there will be an inherent and pressing problem. the nightly panic, the sweat, undeniable and bitter taste in the back of my throat, the everything i have to do.
but for now i am young, i must listen. the sky is bright and the birds soar high. but i do not. perhaps this part of the problem. the 96 degree november weather, this is not what i asked for. its too early to pack up and give up on this place entirely. i know hiding behind a tree is a person right for me, if not, i'll head elsewhere, get the hell over myself and board the goddamn plane, perhaps with my incessant possessions left behind, and go somewhere new.
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