I've been in a strange space lately. Perhaps it's because I've been getting more and more sick since about Tuesday (I think I hit the lowest point yesterday, so from here on out it should be recovery time!) and haven't been able to take time off from school with all the work that's been due, tests and projects and absolute madness. Or perhaps it's because I read a story the other day that played on my biggest fear: losing my loved ones. My best friend, my family, my cats - it doesn't matter, I panic just at the thought. Maybe it's just a side-effect of my addictive personality, I don't know. This particular story was about the death of a best friend, and it gave me horrible nightmares from which I'd wake up, not remembering the plot, but that my best friend had died in each dream. Just thinking about specific quotes (because I'm a quote hoarder rememberer) from the story makes me nearly start to tear up (this is coming from the girl who hardly ever cries, and I was sobbing reading the story). So this week's unpleasant mixture of sickness, exhaustion, panic, and accidentally overdosing on NyQuil (not by much - I just took the recommended amount, then found out I wasn't sick enough to require that much and that was why I was having trouble balancing and remembering where my hands stop.) resulted in some internal freak-outs and sudden random movements. It also resulted in a poem.
(It doesn't have a title, because I couldn't think of a good one.)
I’m afraid of the thoughts
which barrage the insides of
my skull and my fingertips
don’t end where I think they
do, but that’s just fine.
even in the refuge which
I’ve built inside my closed
eyelids, I find no
salvation, because there can be
no refuge, because I seem to exist
everywhere I go.
but to leave, to exit this drain
of nearly everything of interest
and perhaps view the world from
another shade of un-belonging
feel a different form of exhaustion
taste a better word for “leaving”.
if only steepled fingers could
solve all of my problems, or
provide me with more reason – more
yet I suppose there must be more to see
belief brought by passion, fueled by
a body cooperating no longer against
a mind so bored of monotony
and lack of deviation from patterns
which aren’t even an interesting shade
maybe there lies, somewhere,
a name for the unnamable,
if one is necessary
or an answer to the questions
I can’t bring myself to ask.
maybe there is rest from
all that I’ve been fearing
but I am unsure whether fear
is a motivator or a
and until it is realized,
I won’t know what any words mean
and though I’ll colour them over
to forget the fictitious past
my eyes will always lose
at the precise
How's that for honesty?
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