Flail

I'm having another day of being wound up and burnt out.
Restless, endless, sickening searching searching searching.
Can't the world hold off, hold still while I find one one one truth.
No questions, no questions, I don't believe in advice
if, out there, there was help, hand up, hand out, steading hand
I would have already found it.
So lonely struggle. So. Lonely struggle. So lonely. Struggle.

My eyes are too big or too small, I'm not sure which.
I take in too much, there is so much to take in.
The problem must be with me, in me, wrapped tight around me.

Why can't I focus on the here and immediate.
Hopes, thoughts, curiosities roam, thirst, lust.
Let enough to survive subsist be enough.
Why care about depth and understanding
Why mind interworkings and interplay
Why search and search and search.

I'm aching. Hellbent and aching.
Crushed under weight misbalanced, aching for a revolution.
In history is there a model I can photocopy and fill in.
Teach me the outlines of overthrow.
Map out how to change my world, the branching roads to a single future.
Single, stellar future.

Searching, searching, searching and empty.
Exhaling between vacuums
Unless there is air outside I'm too weak to breathe
Too weak, too blind, too lazy.
All coming down to internal faults breaking me apart.
Cracks I can't fill, tears I can't mend, wounds I can't bind.
Or haven't succeeded with yet.

And, remember, I'm empty.
So I'm searching, searching, searching.

-----

Desperate for some kind of connection, I poached a couple dozen blogs from the reading lists of friends, somehow under the impression that if I immerse myself in the words of other people I will be less alone.

I may remove them again in a few days as I feel myself pressured to eat everything on my plate, and this brief database acquaintanceship was seeing beautiful faces in a crowd, then losing track as the bus arrives and it's time to move on.

Does it matter to fish when they are caught and released? I suppose that's a poor metaphor as being caught, as a fish, surely involves pain, blood, and at least temporary asphyxiation.
Does it matter to birds or elk or rabbits when they are photographed? Does it make an impact for their likenesses to be scanned, downloaded, uploaded, replicated, duplicated, parsed, cropped and commented upon by lifeforms unnoticed?


I told Draco earlier today that I wasn't quite sure if I was busy or not. I really don't know how to define the word right now. There are piles of things I should do, like laundry folding, carpet vacuuming, or costume sewing, and lists of things I could do, but nothing really vital.

While I wouldn't go so far as to call my actions slothful busywork, things I do merely to keep busy, they all feel feather-light to me. Anything could have meaning, but none of it goes the distance and fulfills that potential of value.

Swimming in a vacuum.
Spinning my wheels.

It takes fight and effort not to slander myself in times like this, to make self deprecating comments as to the nature of my thoughts and words. The phrases lurking at the corners of my mind aren't blatant self-hatred so much as things to undermine this blue streak by making a joke of it, or passing it off as inconsequential. Blame the rain, but for a change I'd like to embrace my moodiness. It'll be a joke tomorrow or next week, but right now I'm going to take the low road and brood. To abort the ennui by putting on a cheery face and plunging ahead into empty tasks wouldn't be helpful this time.

Let's see what happens when I wear this veil of anguish with a straight face...