Exiting The East

I'm tired. I'm always tired. I feel like a heroin addict. My left arm hurts. My veins feel bruised. If reincarnation is true, perhaps in some distant life I was. It could be fluid retention. I don't get enough protein. Why do I care? I'm trying to come to terms with hunger, to know what it feels like, to never know what it feels like.  It's much harder to rewire my brain than I thought. Rethinking is hard work. No, you are not hungry. Food is not important. Who am I kidding? I'm always tired. Maybe this is what being healthy is. Maybe I never really was. I squeeze the sun out of every minute of the day until the dark no longer feels like fighting. If it doesn't end it can never begin. I should remind myself of this more often.

I miss him. Cursed feminity. We are all the same. We are all Eve's to someone else's Adam. I miss his laugh.

I'm just tired, that's all. The days go so fast. And all I want is that laugh.

Discovering new music is great. Having someone to share it with is even better.

August was not kind to me this year. It's up to me to change this. It's just taking longer than I'd like. I need to find that passion again. I need to find what makes me come alive again (aside from him, other than him). I need trees. I need stars. I need the sound of water over rock. I want to dance in my barefeet in the grass to the sound of drums and harmonica. Can I accept that the answers aren't there? That they never were and that's the whole point? Maybe by asking the questions I've already found the answers. Maybe we've had the idea all wrong. Maybe we start with the answers in hopes of forming the right questions. I am well on my way to understanding...

I know I should be doing my work right now, instead of writing. <---note that I am forming my shoulds and should-nots to fit into what I have always been taught was right and wrong. Work first, play second type of thing. But what I am told is my work is not who I am. Writing is who I am. I will do what I want. And you can suffer the consequences.

I'm tired. Exhausted really. Mentally, anyway. I didn't sleep last night. I couldn't. For some reason, though, I'm not physically tired. I'm just tired of all the things I think.

I was happy then,

when I thought I knew. I was so close. How has it come to this so quickly? I may be even closer yet, but if it's truth I'm after why am I not happy anymore? I could be in pursuit of something very dangerous. The unknowing of it all is too heavy. Let's say for instance you've spent your entire life underground, and some people are content with that life because it's what they know. They are taught how to see in the dark, how to build with dirt, and they are satisfied. But for some of us the light is too bright to be kept out no matter how deep underground you dwell. So say you know there is more beyond the dirt, and you spend your whole life digging overheard, expecting to someday--finally--breech the top. Now let's say that you finally do that. Your hand reaches up in one tired, weak motion and all the earth falls down around you and you realize that there is light and air and grass....the first thing you do is breathe. And you feel relieved.

Well I feel as if I've dug myself clear, and instead of feeling relieved I feel alone in my new world, and scared; but I know I can't go back underground. I just couldn't, because I know it's not real. But this new world up here isn't any better. Should I have dug more to the right? the left? Should I have dug down deeper instead?

And who wants to think about Shakespeare at a time like this? Who wants to bother themselves with Captain John Smith and literary adaptation? My mind is saying "NO! I need to figure things out first..." But there is no time for meaningful thought. Just do your work.