Once More Into The Breach, Dear Friends

Having consumed the words of a friend of mine, I realized it’s been quite some time since I’ve bled my mind of what I’ve been through in the last while.  I should be resting, but if there’s one thing that’s consistent in my life – I never know when to quit doing the small things that aren’t in my own best interest (or in the interest of the things I’ve thus far decided are best for me).  If life is made of water (the body being seventy percent or more), then there are rivers and ponds and lakes and streams and oceans.  I wonder whether I’m caught in a stagnant pond, waiting to be dragged under to rot among the dead leaves at the bottom – or if I am floundering in a river of my own design.  Perhaps I’m headed for the stormy seas of my own inability to focus and do what I know is necessary to continue with what I’ve long planned for myself.

Maybe I’m scared of living up to my full potential.  I wonder if it is possible to fear the things one might be capable of.

I don’t have time to write everything I’d like to.

Kelly, this entry is your fault because in reading what I thought to be a rather expressive piece I decide to write – but unlike a lot of males potentially in your life, I take full responsibility for my psychological reactions.  I’m not about to claim you had anything to do with what I’m placing here, subsequently.  This is just the reactionary instinct of my own pulse, the saline stream of my vitals.  My organs aren’t easily turned into slush.  I selfishly keep oxygen within me, whereas there are so many other organisms that would love to respire what I have had.  They probably will eventually.  Water is broken into oxygen and protons, which are forced back into the liquid essential for life on this planet.

I spent the last seven months trying to get the experiments I’ve been doing for a couple years to work again.  I fell into laziness and decadence without real substance.  If only I’d been getting laid, I’d at least have said I’d gotten something out of the deal.  Instead I saw illness.  I guess at least I haven’t stumbled and fallen into my own vomit (yet).

I managed to anger all of my professors with my laziness.

And somehow my apartment has fallen into disrepair very rapidly.

I feel as though my intelligence quotient or IQ has fallen by fifty points.

I’d claim I’d lost the magic I used to have in my fingertips, the magic to write and express and understand whatever I encountered – but I can’t even specifically state that in the articulate fashion I feel might adequately do justice to the feelings derived of all that I’ve allowed myself to embrace.  I must be slightly masochistic to allow myself to be so utterly amounting to impotence.  With a mind like mine, I should be leading the pack.  Instead, I hide in my labeled dungeon.

My electric bill for last month was far too much, I’m going to have to endure the burning heat of this hell in order to maintain a steady income.  I hate having to go without air conditioning.  I would never survive a summer in Arizona.  I’d perish of dehydration.  I drink between two and four liters of water a day.  I quite commonly consume six gallons of orange juice a month.  My skin is bronze from the Hawaiian sun and my eyes remain darkened by polarized shades.

My newer pair of sunglasses wound up in the car of an acquaintance of mine who came up to visit me two months ago to attend a Beck concert.  She subsequently quit talking to me and never returned my property to me.  I’ve deleted her from my life as rapidly as I could, realizing she’d decided she had no need of me any longer.  I mention this only because I mourn the loss of my property.  Theft without cause or theft without purpose or explanation is something I don’t appreciate.  I never stole without reason (desire is enough reason, want is enough explanation).  Drama I could do without.  Sleep I could use more of.  A better diet might lead me to better mood, and more exercise wouldn’t hurt either.

Detroit is a tempting place to spend Thanksgiving.

I cannot tell any more if vampirism was/is a joke or an affectation, or if my morbid words and images are part of my muscle and bone.  Where my ligaments and tendons begin, and where the strings that make me a marionette connect – I have lost those perceivable lines.  It’s going gray in the dusk.  One more sunset already gone, and I’m twenty five within a blink.  I might be forty tomorrow.  My neck aches almost constantly and I’m not sure my body knows how to stand up straight any more.  If I am Atlas, is the world to end when I can bear myself no longer?  I’m no longer certain of the invincibility of my shoulders.  This is what adulthood must be about, admitting the possibility that one is not invulnerable.  Maybe I’ve always known I wasn’t invulnerable.

I’m scared of being displaced from grad school.  I cannot fail to meet the expectations of those around me

They are the skies, made of stone weights.  They pay the cash into my bank account to feed the people who rent me a roof and place the sustenance in my digestive tract.  I don’t know what else to say.  I’m uncertain if placing this here really does any good for my emotional state.  At least I’m creating something, even if it feels like molten lead awaiting a moment to solidify around my lungs.  I’m still breathing, moment to moment.

The panic only sets in when I allow myself to sit still.  I’ll make better use of my time when I awake.  I keep saying that, but I have no choice any more.  The line is here – and if I don’t cross it, I’ll lose all that I’ve fought for.  I cannot allow my sweat to have been for nothing.  Thus, now I go to sleep for a few hours.

–Ara Raven ~ Copyright 2006–