How warped is my mind?

If I try to write about beauty but it comes out twisted and sad. I was told it was beautiful once. Did it mutate? What happened to my idea of beautiful? Am I being honest?

Am I romanticizing illness and drudging up the gutter? Painting the sunset with arsenic and mustard gas. Choking myself with my shoe as I attempt to strangle myself as long as possible. Feeling the laces, with my fingers, as the esophagus wriggles them down.

Life can be relatively split into good and bad. We can only hope that the good makes it all worth it but there is no clear alternative. Is the dull monotony so drab that any dash be it bright or dark is beautiful?

Life is tragedy, if only we can re-imagine it to fit the heroic structure. Our larger than life characteristic is we are not. We are plain. the days are the same. We make up rules to a game that no one started. We restrict ourselves and say that it is great. We-I try to speak for everyone when it is me all along. Holden Caughfield didn’t have awareness to be in the first person for his pain. I have his parable to test myself by. I am dull and hugely small. I have great ideas that are terrible. I have ambition to stay low. I may not leave this place. I may not progress. I need to be okay with that. I need to take it and own it and it can be in my own time.

If today is a waste, there is always another today. I am read and that in itself is amazing.

Life as a duality has been lamented by many. Irony, if life is tragic then why is drama the remedy? It is and it isn’t. It is in the box that we make. The limits that we set keep us focused. If I am aware of the choice that I and others set up and run on a daily bases, does that put the ball in my court? Do I have to look beyond the box. Do I have to grab at other choices. Is it my responsibility? If I confuse and am not understood by those that observe me in life, have I made it? Am I beating the expectations and limits? Tonguing at the base of my brain. telling it to think. Telling it to go beyond. Further in thought. Harder and faster. Be smarter. Is control the answer or insanity? Clarity out of control. Can my life continue outside its box? Can my brain push out of its skull. Is my soul counted or is it another imagined construct that weighs on me.

It isn’t the manic pixie that picks at my life but my lack of understanding. Mental illness is stronger than us all. We can deny it. We can drug it. We can tell it to focus. We can lead it along a happy path full of pleasure. They say suicidal depression is terminal illness. You cannot escape the gravity of the mind. Will looking it in the eye make things easier than ignoring it?

Can I stare at the computer screen any longer. Why do I want to run? The thought of throwing off my headset and pushing out my chair. Taking the dramatic hair-pin turn around to my front door and pushing open the scree. Feeling the cool night air and my feet smack on hard cement steps. The potted plants that may hit my shins. The lawn dropping that could be anywhere. The feel of sweaty grass and my legs desire to move one in front of the other not waiting for my brain to direct them. To bring my  ankles and swing to the right as my arms vault me over the fence. To make it to the road, scamping over the cold tar. bouncing to the curb and into the parking lot across the street. It could end there. I would stand and breathe. I would shake slightly feeling for bruises. Let the heat form my body escape into the night. Looking into the darkness, would my eyes be dry enough to cry? Would it all be shaken off? Could I walk home in the dark slightly uncomfortable or relieved? The walk back would be much longer. Much less furied. Would  run back for shelter? What would I be retreating from?


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