Stream of consciousness for tonight
I’m just going to sit here and write for a half and hour. Time to plow through the various emotional states and feelings I still haven’t sorted out, they just pile like laundry. Plow through bitterness and resentment, more frustration than anything else. It’s not the fault of the sugar industry that I feel like I’m typing stylized gibberish. Right now I’m going through Google maps, looking at neighborhoods I’ve never been to and realizing how well-put-together it all looks: and here I sit, stuck in the crumbling ruins of a land that goes within a snail’s pace. The snails have left us in the dust.
We’re all cliches and limited mental states: I don’t feel the full range of being alive when I’m tethered here, tied with emotional connections and reinforce fears that I can’t make it outside of my bubble. Better to have me in a stifling structure than to have me roam free into something that might not be pleasant. I feel ill-equipped and ill-trained to run for the real world. Talking about myself just make me self-conscious about slipping into solipsism (I seem to be fond of that word these days). I live vicariously through the people who have cut themselves loose from their moorings and found new lives, unbound by their previously held expectations and finding what they hadn’t expected to even desire.
My possessions are clutter. I don’t know what I believe in these days, just am fully aware that the path laid out before me is leading into a loop, and if I really want to get somewhere, I have to cut a few trees and climb a few walls. Which walls are my own construction and which were imposed on my path by other people? My holding pattern lets these walls go up, and fortify themselves so that it’s harder and harder for me to break through, get to the place that I might be happy. The search may not yield anything for a while, but I’m sick of the known, and I’m sick of the facade I keep up just for a little stability.
Stability, that’s a concept. I used to crave it when I was younger, resisting change. That’s what loyalty springs from. But I’m getting bored, and I’m realizing that things are starting to decompose, and the stench is overpowering. I can’t breathe anymore. I don’t want to break out of my mold in front of everyone right away, just in case they push back. The fleeting nature of life makes me realize that it’s something that can be wasted, and there is only so much time and so many experiences I’ll get.
Life was meant to be full of pain and ecstasy. Order is not natural; chaos is not something to be feared, just acclimatized to. All this time spent trying to impose order is time I should have spent getting used to the way it really is. All these missed opportunities. I’m not dead yet. I’m also not as young as I was, and worry about how much harder it is to dig out from the ruts I land myself into. This time spent worrying is time I’m wasting. We don’t have enough time to waste, but I wonder if some of use just can’t get the momentum that others can.
Seeking color. Washed out beiges and yellows are pissing away my eyesight to the point where any variation is getting too hard on my eyes to recognize.