like a trashcan fire in a prison cell

like the search lights in the parking lots of hell

air is crisp and holidays drip past me. lack of significance in ancient miracles and fantastical figures, maybe a glossy compact mirror will make me care. but apathy is a gripping condition, it lives dormant and mute behind the breast-bone. silently awakening to let you know these things don't matter. it is not these things that matter.

let's live on coffee and supplemental neuro-transmitters. let's keep self medicating until our blood is no longer pure and the pressure that exists within us is ready to explode. let's keep writing and reading and walking and running until we have any clue as to what we are walking towards. what concept we are approaching. what dream sits at the ledge waiting for me to arrive. like a girl sitting at the edge of a cliff looking out at a landscape hugging her knees into her chest, glancing behind her, chin to shoulder blade to quietly acknowledge I am finally there.

does the dream wait for the dreamer or does the dreamer wait for the dream? who is it that is perched at the edge of this terrain? more unsolvable questions. kept in my back pocket. wrinkled paper warm and damp of ideas i will never follow to their potential. uncertainties that will be solved only in death. i try not to self destruct, in these moments of profound, omnipresent confusion. where the only thing i know for certain is that i know nothing at all. that the pursuit of truth is a trivial path. that answers will never come. only more moments to ruminate on lack of concrete atonement.

so i protest against pollution. against the ache in my lungs, contracting and gasping for air. fresher air. higher altitude. is this what matters. this is what matters. attempting to craft goals for the new year. to replace the old. shed a layer of skin and exfoliate until the dead cells drop off and a new coat is revealed. more toned, even texture, smoothed over and unified. if only i could push this weight off of my body and back into the atmosphere. no lingering shadows of darkness that follow behind me. it is what it is and i must allow myself to move independently from the burdens i have come to know all too well. to swim with strong and large strokes through whatever waters i travel and glide towards who i want to be, or rather who i know i am underneath the bitter coatings. to better myself with each breath, head turned sideways out of the water, preparing to propel forward. it is not in finally approaching land or arriving to any destination, time reveals that the glory is in the swim, or in the pursuit, and rarely in the achievement. i will believe in the process, in a rhythmic pattern used to exist more peacefully than this. to know this process is my own task, and whether or not the weight is shared, i will bear it. i must bear it on my own and find the reward in every corner turned. maybe then i will come to terms with this nightmare. maybe the nightmare will return to a dream.

i've made amends

in the general sense, but the devil's in the details.

The magic exists in early fall days. Where the sun sets quickly. Orange burnt sky dust. Where a shooting star is a visual reality. Two stationary locations. An arc of shinning, splintering silver light leaping from point A to point B. Fluid movement. Make a wish now or forever be luckless. Throw your change. Throw everything you have into making this life worth living. Into finding joy in unexpected corners and strength and progress in the crevices of your own eyelids. In the crease of your stomach folds. In your own wrong doings and shortcomings. In everything you wish you could be.

The glory in the juice of an orange. Dripping from my bottom lip onto my chin, onto my chest, down my clavicle, to my navel, to the spot adjacent to my right hip bone that sends electricity through my core. Hair standing up on its ends, shivering, make me weak. Yet I am not weak and will not let overbearing, calloused hands push me down to a manipulated position. Weak. Knees bend and head cocked looking upwards.

So I carry my days out alone. In the whirlwind speedway that is my own condition. Living just to figure out what in God's name it means to be living. Searching for salvation. Trying to save myself from all of the worms, the dirt, the earthly and unearthly corruption. Always present. Always a devil around the next corner, behind an ajar door. Waiting for me. To suck me in and rid me of all of my progress. How to learn to be stronger. To open the door look the devil in his black brown eyes that seem to lead nowhere and walk the other way. There need be no fight. No guns. No rise of arms. The only thing needed is my own will to turn my own heel. Worn down heel. Flat. So flat my feet practically glide across the cement. Dry skin. Another callous. I refuse to be callous.

The shooting star was a sight my eyes never saw before. A virgin experience. New witness to extraterrestrial pleasure. A real instance of the supernatural bleeding into the human sky. Glancing at it the burst of light looks like a diamond. Of infinite carat. Infinite worth. Glowing and glittering without delay or resistance. Like its only purpose is to shine. And to die. And in the magnificent streak of evanescence its emanating glory is more than I can fathom. It cannot be apart of my life time, the same system I exist in. unless that dying star also lies within me. Leaping light years away as a flashlight of hope in the dark polluted night sky. A lightning strike gallop that lit up my insignificant slice of. A message. A faint, flickering stream, fountain of majestic beauty. Untainted and pure, radiant and speckled, how it shined, how it shined.

thirsty

but your appetite gets chased away

october's air is far more pleasant. in the morning mist lies relief from the overbearing california sun. more relief comes with accumulative strength. with each step i begin to feel better. more comfortable in my healing, less scarred skin. engaged abdominals. learning how to live this life with clearer intentions.

i am escaping a debilitating depression. and as i crawl out of this dank, dark hole i am blinded by the light. i fear it. with two hands pressed firmly at the opening i do my best to hoist myself up and begin to climb out without getting weighed back down. without a brick on my chest it is easier to make decisions, easier to say no to what will damage me, what will set me back and prevent me from reaching a euphonic rhythm. the gray outlined figure i am trying to color in. to become a part of a life long projection of wants and wishes. to eliminate materialism and lack of depth in that vision. to see it for its core and ignore the amenities.

i am doing my best to adhere to my first instincts. to practice what i preach. ever confident in each word of advice but seldom act upon my own values. take each let down with a grain of salt. knowing very well there are greater things in this cosmic construction than i could ever foresee. a myriad of miraculous possibilities that exist not in my mental capacity. the drive to achieve a blissful state where mind is eliminated. meditate. concentrate. find a way to make this work. find a way to put out the cigarette and see daylight more clearly. to cough up every ounce of toxins from my lungs, my blood, and stand up straight in facing my fate that will deliver me from evil. deliver me to infinity. to the grandest most specific dream anyone could ever have. a dream too big to hold in my own hands. my open wounded cuticles. how they are starved from moisture. how i am starving but never do seem to fill myself up. looking for nourishment in other sources. do not give me food give me something of truer substance. something i can sink my teeth into and bite down on with all of my will, something psychologically digestible. satiating and fulfilling. a gratification i have yet to find. something that can overcome me, become me, something i can become.

fills my mind with jumpropes and slit wrists

bust through the firewall into heaven

from the outside. it seems like i live in a cloud of smoke. as i arrive, when i arrive, i am circled by a wreath of a white milky air, curling out of my mouth and into my surroundings. it seems as if without such an entrance, time goes by slower. dragging its feet.

depression never leaves me. i can ignore it in brief moments of vacuuming or folding. in driving. i find it hard to identify a home. my home is transition. my home is the ten freeway, the left lane, the 80 mph blinding speed i achieve, rhythmically to get from one transient abode to another. i create a relationship with the gas pedal, the firm smooth leather of the steering wheel and the music that propels my four wheels. the poetic and disturbing words of my favorite artist. his believable philosophy. how riddled i am with existential musings. the who am i what am i where do i go from here circular thoughts that never do seem to end.
and i find myself more isolated than ever. living in a wash of chemicals and endorphins that never do their job. never communicate properly to my neurotransmitters to tell them to lighten up. breathe easy and free of tar. to laugh at the bad and rejoice in the few moments of good. of bliss. that i know are still attainable.

and my attention span is shrinking. cannot finish a book, a day without feeling insanely bent up and frustrated. my lips are cut from a different kind of self distruction. one that takes place when my mind slows down and forgets depression and gets absorbed in the darkness of evening. with my head pressed firmly against my pillow i pray never to leave. do not take me away from this earth. i pray i will accomplish something. even if it is just getting out of bed on-time or kicking a bad habit. i pray i will craft talent and turn this misery into art. that there must be a reason i suffer so profoundly, so suffocatingly that i cause myself to be short of breath. awaking with a respiratory ache that can only come from damage. from living too hard at a young age. from not appreciating my youth and attempting to damage, quite severly my young and resilient body. but i feel 45. i feel older with each step i take as my bones hit the ground and my spine continues to curve, downwards, closer to whatever exists below this life. or above.

i feel thin. frail. eating as much as one meal a day. coffee. nicotine. nothing good for me. i search for comfort. affirmation. never reached such a self depricating place. i cling to the past but thank god i am done with my abysmal summer. thank god he is gone. out of sight out of mind. finally realizing you are not worth my time.

i am slowly but surely working on arriving somewhere. crafting my talent and harnessing damage into productive, coherent thoughts. to bring me to a solid ground to stand on. where my bones aren't crushed by gravity. where there is nothing keeping me down. i will shake this. this growing leeching darkness that no longer sits on my chest but exists in my veins, in my tendons and muscles and every inch of my body. that crawls through me while i sleep and manifests itself in parasitic dreams. how i am abusing myself as a host. how there are trecherous jungle animals in places they don't belong. how they try and seize me and become me, take me down with them until there is no crack of light. but i am the watcher. i am observing this depression and it is not me. i will eliminate it by having faith that i am above it. that it is an aspect of me and not my total self. that i have a chance at happiness. at freedom. that death will be salvation and a conclusion to this painfully transient and incomprehensible existence. how it will be a relief. how i will accept it when it comes as i have learned to accept all changes in this life. how i will continue to grow and age and love every wrinkle on my forehead as evidence that i have lived. and learned and loved and enjoyed this very fragile blessing. this miracle. the wonder.

a four wall reflection

My room is filled with blank checks, empty birth control packs, a compact mirror, cropped tops. A chaotic sea of adolescent belongings. Novels and handbags scattered among a half unpacked suitcase, open supplement bottles and empty cups, plastic bottles. A hair diffuser, needle and thread. Enough nail polish to paint the town red. A pink and white journal from years passed sits collecting dust under my desk. My dog licks her leg on my plush white bed and the naked overhead light is glaring and unflattering -- casts this room in a more harsh and unforgiving light. There are socks, vomit-soaked gowns yet to be dry cleaned and my cracked, unnourished lips. There are prescription pill bottles, some empty, some half-filled with substances that are supposed to fix this cursed condition. This chemical imbalance that makes my esophagus red with anger and my brain riddled with fears. A chipped, unglazed ceramic cup I made at age four sits with three mint leaves and ample water. It gives off no smell. Hand cream, face cream, copious amounts of chap stick containers, lip balms, carmex, Blistex. A book shelf filled with stark and depressing titles, how people rarely stop to acknowledge how bleak the names are, Being and Nothingness, Paradise Lost, The Waves, In Cold Blood. The case filled with the truth of human existence, Crime and Punishment, The Razor’s Edge, One Hundred Years of Solitude. How these men and women knew how dreary this life really is. In a mess of noise-cancelling headphones and magazines adorned with Chanel poster adds. Some attempt to achieve beauty. Leather and faux-leather purses. A dog breathes heavily in the night and I love her. More than I love the coat hanger siting on my desk chair and more than I love, in many ways myself. More pills, receipts, empty shopping bags and earrings. For freshly pierced skin. New breakthroughs, needles dug deep. An open drawer of unmatched socks. Nude mesh leotards and rabbit ears. Dress up. How I do not know how to move on from here. How I do not know where I want to go. My left gland is swollen and my lungs are bruised, damaged from too much smoke. Drawers filled to the brim with crushed empty cigarette packs, Marlborough Lights, American Spirit Blues, Parliments. I am never quite ready to go to sleep. Sitting half up half awake not ready to face the night. The pre-dawn surrender to daily darkness, collective lack of light. My toe throbs and pulses through infected skin. A damp towel rests on the edge of my bed and I doubt I will move it. Doubt I will hang it up to dry where it belongs. Im seeking joy in vindication, disorganization and appreciation of this chaotic summer. Im seeking joy in the potential relief from my undeniable self loathing. How everything begins to feel like a rejection, when anyone says my name. how its so strange to hear the syllables spoken outloud, recogniton that I do indeed exist, in this unspeakably unfathomable life. How no words could ever come close to describing the hourly struggle I face of attempting to confront my doom. The foreverness of death. The lightness and sand like quality the ones we love have of slipping through our fingers, out of our grip. And seep out like fireflies into the night sky, away from us. Too far to touch. But how I hope we all light up the sky, in a thousand little pieces, radiant speckles of neurons, brain cells, flesh, skin flakes and neon veins. How I hope to light up the sky.

sorrow found me when i was young

sorrow waited and sorrow won

sitting in a strangers room in portland, oregon listening to the national. his caramel voice washing over my body like tapioca, like some kind of taffy. too many metaphors. no way to pin point anything i am ever describing. my body aches for something more rewarding, for fulfillment. a constant state of either dissatisfaction or depressive apathy. released from your chains. the high hoped let down and not-good-enough. whether that label belongs to you or i - i am still unsure. my eyes itch from new-state allergy. finally got on the plane. finally broke my biggest physical fear. so what is the residual anxiety? the leaky washed up faded heart attack. half-forced.

no words left on my chest. everything held inside of me taken out. i am a walking zombie. life force taken away. no desire. no trust in the future. bleak. the scalp-itched discomfort of physical new place. without you. without the desire of you. without the crutch of the possiblity to shrivel and croutch next to.

what a lonesome feeling to be waiting around

like some washed up actress in a tinseltown

we are all underdeveloped. crutched. unable to stand by ourselves. on two solid feet and nothing to rest on. the task is impossible, that we've been given. to be an individual entity. to not be attached at the hip with another. yet i cannot wish to be tied down. i wish to be tied, strung delicately and seamlessly at the side of a lover. but not cut deep with the needle that threaded us together. not tied so tightly that i am responsible, for you, and your inadequacy. all of your inadequacy. the collective not good enough. i'm tired of dumbing myself down, the perpetual degradation of trying to make yourself fit into a puzzle piece that isn't quite your size. trying to mend together the bits of a torn photograph that doesn't belong any longer. the forceful act of trying to fall in love. i guess the reality is it is something that cannot be controlled. it's a shame though. that we can't chose. that something else is at work. that we can't get over our reservations and make this life long struggle for completion and satisfaction easier. that there is so much trial and error.

so i yawn. in the late afternoon light that i am blessed to wake up to. gone is the delusion of morning and late late evening and present is the reality of the decisions we make to make ourselves feel better. or at least try to. the adventure of every experience. but i feel distant. removed. impartial to every situation. like all of this feigned emotion has actually just made me numb. and here i sit unable to feel anything but slight discomfort. loneliness. shallow rejection but more consistent awareness of my own faults. my own mistakes in this creation we are trying to make. so i try to let out a little blood. stab the skin gently so the heat is released and my skin is flushed. but it is never worth it. perhaps none of it is worth it. to try so hard. to try so hard to be sewn together when really all that happens is you get torn apart. by the winds of change and the waves of sex. and then you return, isolated, under sheets of desolation and sorrow. of realizing you are not good enough. or more dissapointingly, that they aren't. that that which you idealized isn't in flesh what you thought it would be. and the dream is better than the reality. and the reality just wades on, effortlessly and always, until maybe you accept it. that you are better off alone.

spring it did come slowly

i guess it did it's part
my heart has thawed and continues to beat

the rhythm of a song i used to love plays through me and i am urged to write. to explain that i do not adore days this warm. the heat overwhelms me and slows down my pulse. lethargic. each step hard to take. and each dream is a fever, where i am not sure i will ever wake up. bizarre images flash before me posing as reality, and i believe it, in the moment, in the moment nothing feels as real.

and there is hope. in every baby born and every decision made. that maybe i will be better for it. that maybe all of this circular wandering will lead me to some solid ground. the breath of summer dances around me in a coreographed tease. it is not here yet. relief from the monotony of the school year. the alarm clock haze that i refuse to wake up to. that i roll over facing the blood red wall of this strange and suffocating room and refuse to face the day. five more minutes under this comforter. do not make me participate. i am too tired.

and i feel strangely adult. synical and jaded. corrupted. my skin no longer resiliant and my lungs heavy with smoke exhaled weeks ago. out of breath. out of shape. walking up a staircase unable to lift my legs to the next level. the level i need to get to.

and i am still on this strangely crafted search for perfection. for satisfaction. for cleaner lines and aesthetic wonder. that i know i can attain. the question is when. when will i realize that this ultimate search for exterior cleanliness will not be achieved until my insides match. until the discord within me begins to settle. the brain waves even out. the soul recovers.

my future exists without me and carries itself out. it is braver than i. it is the dream i have yet to discover. where i swallow my anxiety and walk onto the jet plane. up the isle and into my seat and confidently know that the only thing crashing is the trapped feeling i have had for four years now. that the only thing that will ram into the ground is my own inability to let go of the darkness in my self. that at that breathtakingly uncomfortable angle of take off position i will find the thing that truly bothers me. the demon beyond all mental comprehension. that will only be felt and released once i am suspended in the air. 30,000 feet above sea level and above my constrictions. i will be free.

i had shoes to fill

walking barefoot now
can't tell north from south
but no split hair's gonna get me down

i can't really explain the state i'm in. how it is i'm feeling. my throat clouded with residual phlegm, unwanted from all too easy to catch illnesses. my persistent lack of an immune system. my head is clouded with song lyrics and images of clean homes, fresh interiors that i want to surround myself in. i know i'm experiencing something like a fresh start, the feeling of a clean notebook. the school year nearing an end, closure, i need the smell of summer need its noises in my ear. still amazed with how far the push of a year can lead you. how one launch can take you such a grand distance. so far away.

besides my ever lasting struggle to stay concentrated, i think i might be happy in this position. not leaned back, i'm fairly upright. but tired. so tired. the impossibility of getting out of bed. the ultimate challenge of knowing what it is i want. the struggle to make every page not look the same. to make every day a different color so when i look back on this shinning life it isn't dull, but a radiant scheme of these myriad emotions that seem to follow me everywhere i go. the intensity that murks up yet clears the waters of my daily triumphs and victories. it is the little ones that matter.

the blatant rejection i feel just waking up every day. the murder. the fear of being terminated by larger, unforgiving forces. the constant nicotene and poison that surrounds the air i breathe. the temptation. how much danger is too dangerous. how do i know if its good for my health to take this risk or if it is the next step i take that will lead me spiralling downwards. into the dark pit of the sweat dreams i wake up in the middle of. the pistol painted on my forehead of a strange danger i was previously unaware of. the consuming darkness around the corner waiting for me. that i must be omniscient to predict. the consequential failure that could happen so quickly i had better keep my eyes wide open, sleep on my back so i can wake up easily to find the culprit, the seed of truth that will linger to find the criminal. well aware the criminal lies within me. in constant fear of broken plans and failed attempts to fly. failed attempts even to try.

my throat is dry weeks later. living in a tension dream filled with nonconsecutive images. not continuous. and im in the middle of radical self discovery. in toning arms and doing what i am supposed to. what is good for me. maybe i will one day get a surge of energy. and i will wake up free of the pain i seem to have been born in. the ache i seem to be attached to, at the hip, permanently. so i seek relief, in things non-toxic and beliefs self-perpetuated. that somewhere in the spiral of my subconcious could exist the key i am missing to understand my eclipsed view of this universe. this little slate of being.

the people i loved, the people i almost loved

day breaking

river rolling

i wish i was a morning person. i wish the alarm went off and i arose with ease. one dramatic stretch of the arms is all it would take to wake me. i love the way morning feels. the dew still remaining in the air from the mystery of night and its moist. its fresh. its something i normally sleep through.

i've been sick for a week. making me feel even more vulnerable and worn down than i do usually. i feel triple my age. the aching body of a 54 year old woman. as if i have experienced so much that every turn of the head hits my neck in the same place, as if i'm that old. where is the youth, i've felt this ache since i was 13. i never had a young feeling body. i've felt rickety for as long as i can remember.

i feel like im sitting in an empty bathtub and the water is filling up extremely slowly, one thin layer at a time and i'm cold and naked and the water is barely covering my ankles. and i have no idea why its filling so slowly and why i'm not warm. why the water won't just fill the basin and allow me to bathe. or vice versa, like im relaxing in a full perfect tub that suddenly begins to drain, slowly, and i can't stop the water from gradually seeping out, my energy, life force, the water, god only knows what it represents.

and i'm scattered, unsure of what i'm saying, unsure of what it is i want. depressed. monotonous. how every day manages to feel the same. sunrise. sunset. not quite sure what i'm searching for. what will fill this void. what is the void. i know i'm not going to find answers until i do some real looking. until i take few belongings on some kind of wild, self discovery journey. cliche. but i do need some time to know how i feel, my own personal answers to life un-answerable questions.

ah, i just wish i had faith in myself. isn't that where it always boils down to? that i will make it. that your promise will keep. that i will be taken care of. cradled from within. nursed back to childhood where my limbs feel connected effortlessly and the aching between my shoulder blades softens, my jawline, hard as a rock, returns to a relaxed, comfortable position. and i find you/it/the thing i need to not be such a wandering, loud, maniac. my own insanity. my own need for perfection. i'm turning into a swan. ok. maybe i'm not turning into a swan.

maybe it is all about human connection. a smile shared with a stranger. or strangers. i wonder why we can't have a story with everyone. there is no "one" for you. its the one you make right. the one out of thousands. i am all about second chances. trial and error. i will keep trying until i get this right. but why limit the possibilities. every match of the cosmos spectrum is a different make-up. every single possible human connection will spark a different outcome, one that i am entitled to experience. every individual can change my experience. i value each story. each name, each number. each sliver in my history of becoming who i am today, sitting here writing this for some level of self relief. extraction. hopefully it does something constructive. hopefully bodies entwined releases some real level of personal toxicity, so i can be less bitter, so i can be one with another and not this hard brick of an existing entity, not alone.

language just happened it was never planned

and its inadequate to describe where i am

with what emotion do i start the words on this page. imaginary. like the acid floating from with in me, must keep it in, keep it down. hold me down. i've been reading every vowel of fiction i can swallow, a quest for knowledge, a story to keep my attention, to let this dream go by faster. but slow it down now, must build myself to last, set up for success not failure, to live this life fully, still no idea what that means.

and its these late night ramblings that have me wound up and bent over, kneeling towards morning, seeing the sun come up, the first instinct of dawn come through these inadequate, insufficient, incapable window panes and i am awake with the sun, not ready for the day. the only gift i get. the best gift any of us can get.

my shoulders are achy and my tongue is burnt and sore, lips chapped past shot of redemption, parched and unable to sleep. always unable to sleep. the late night mind wanders past confines i can control. to what i will name you, nameless, now shapeless infinite little infant will rest in my arms and i will weep now, for the loss, the separation, of all of us, how i pray in the end we aren't really alone. an immaculate image projected from the blueprint, the divine reel that keeps spooling, keeps playing until the contrast is too small, until the known and unknown blend to the parched white page i started with, the beginning and end of it all. i admit i know nothing. i know nothing at all.

and i yearn, still, for something to bite down on. back molars positioned steadily on forearm flesh until i can pour out all of my anger for things listed above. head too heavy for neck. breath too heavy for throat to carry out properly, smoothly, a smoke exhale that i wont let myself inhale, too toxic.

why can't i sleep. i truly don't understand why i lie awake throwing myself around, never quite comfortable. never quite surrendered to the problems that take up my mind. problems i can't solve. that are un-solvable.

i don't know what i love. i don't even know that much anymore. i cut my cuticles until blood pours, accidentally. another accidental self-injury. i know i can recover. how am i still recovering. how long it takes for a wound to properly heal, seal over, until no bacteria can enter anymore. until we are safe from ourselves.

perhaps it is all too dramatic. we should handle this more like men. cowardly. i face it forward, honestly, as honest as i can. and maybe my words are hyperbole, but i know what helps me. i know what is a proper assist in making it through the walls in my brain, the membrane preventing me from sleep, my own fear of not having enough time to make it where i know i'm going, where i position my finger tips firmly into belief that i can arrive in one piece at my final destination knowing i did every last thing i could do to better this life, to better myself, to awakened and wake up at a proper hour feeling well, ready for this world, this weird world in front of me. in front of us.

i don't know just where i'm going

but i'm going to try for the kingdom if i can

this insomnia makes me cranky. achy. restless to the point of no return. exasperated, looking for any method to slow down my heartbeat, racetrack night-fall, i just want to sleep. eyes fall heavy on their base and my face feels swollen, my jaw clenched into a tightly wound spring, ready to snap, unpredictably at words expelled at just the wrong time, at being made to feel worthless, to re-write whatever i don't like to hear, verbatim, until strung clearly it sounds like a more acceptable, ameliorated melody, one tolerable to my over stimulated and under nurtured ears, back to the heartbeat, the racing, the potential to calm down

it feels like a rising in my throat, a desire to purge, or to gain something to keep the bile down. the incestuous insomniactic wandering, the need for something stable, yet wavering enough to hold my interest, strung light delicate beauty hanging on the rim on my windowsill, something simple. a buffer, to keep me in my perspective place, my words chosen more wisely, a counterpart, to offset intensity and add light-hearted even paced pleasant times, a winter, summer, improper weathered night

too much on my mind to be successful, so determined i turn the other direction. place this jaw ache into schoolwork, my goals whatever the hell that means. whatever those even are anymore. but i must pat myself on the back for the progress the How Far I've Come, a year to recover, to redeem and mend the torn esophagus-insanity, the strained trachea, too much damage. need to cleanse. at least i'm not smack in the middle of a melt down, at least i have enough to stand on my own two feet and make leveled decisions. like the tool sitting atop the wooden surface that is my life, my ever pressing existence, and watch the yellow water-mercury-esque droplet swish back and forth until i am centered, until the night has not yet parted and i can still see clearly, past the emptiness and into something standard yet whole, something to complete this late night contradiction muffled tragedy, something to live beside.