Clarity and Change

I don’t know how to feel. All I want to do is lay down on my floor, curled into myself, crying. So I did that, but it became boring. No one ever take about how boring sadness is. I want to do things, but I don’t want to do things. I want to change, but stagnancy rests in my veins. Change bites at my heels, but I can’t change. I want to SO bad, but I can’t. Everywhere advice has started resonating with me. I know I need a change. I know I need TO change, but my efforts have gone nowhere. Why can’t I take control of my life?


It’s isolating.

In case you wondered why there is a community, it’s because it’s isolating. 

You just want to talk about it with someone, but they couldn’t care less. They just move on, treat your identity like an admission that you like to swim or that you’re allergic to strawberries. 

On one hand it’s nice-not to be defined by your orientation. It’s nice for it to be treated as normal, but on the other hand, I can’t talk about how it affects my life. 

It means that there is a chance I will never get to experience a romantic relationship in the same way as other people.

No it’s okay. You’ll find someone.

It means that I’m afraid that people will treat me differently once they find out.

Well screw them.

Well maybe I don’t want to limit my human connections to the socially educated. Maybe I don’t want to discount people because of their sometimes well meaning ignorance.

It means that people make assumptions.

Well, what does it matter what they think?

Well some people will discourage other people from connecting with me romantically because they assume I’m not into that sort of thing. Some people will be confused when I’m excitable and flirty and ship everything. Some people will be surprised by my humanness-think of me as subhuman. Cold, emotionless, be less likely to rent an apartment out to me, be less likely to be my friend if the studies are true. Or superhuman, somehow able to resist human impulses, the perfect modum of control.

Don’t you want that? To be thought of as superhuman?

I know enough to know that I am not better than anyone. And this isn’t where I would want to be.

Shouldn’t you be proud?

I am proud, but I’m afraid.

Reflection in the time of violets

I can see the sleepness nights stretched across my brow and hanging like stars beneath the ocean moon of my eyes. The corn rows of my eyebrows still young, questioning everything. The corners of my mouth hanging with concern. Little doe spots sprinkling across the ridges of my nose and the plains of my cheeks. Hair splaying out like wispy sunbursts across the expanse of my wintery and weathered skin, beaten by the winds of change and Moonfull nights and a different sky than the one I’ve lived under. The stars ever so slightly angled differently that throws my life askew, toppling and rippling and hoping for replete.
I see amber in your eyes and gold running through your veins. A thousand lion skins stretch from your smiles and your touch, the warmth of the summer sun. Golden hearths contain your joy. My summer heat, confusion as the air grows cooler, as you step away for minutes or hours what once seemed clear is muddled, the stirring of bottommuck sand from the depths of the deep to cover the clarity of the brook.
Two of you, two so different yet two lion hearts and summer skies. Two Great confusions lighting my wintery way. And one from the darkness of distance ghosting warmth across my cheekbones. I don’t know how to feel. Yet I feel.


Everything feels so different in the morning. The heavy handed grip of night is released, and we’re left with a surreal calmness and tranquility. I live for mornings. It’s the only calm I get.
The sky is a pearly grey with dew drops hanging in her stormy eyes. The trees sway, great founts of water shaking off their grand ferns. There is a quiet to it. A peace.
Yesterday’s tears are in the sky. They’re in the trees. But they’re no longer in my eyes.

The Fissure of Pain

A thousand thoughts run through my head tonight: grades, success, romance, and most prevalently protection. It pounds in my ears and has no solace. My arms and legs stretch to cover all of the broken who surround me. And I try to think not of how I am stitched together, but rather how to stitch us all together. I have an arm around a shoulder, hand touching past to the next person. My other hand lightly touches the person on the other side, and my foot reaches all the way across to rest on the foot of the last group member. A thousand explosions are going off, fission into our problems, and the whole time I try to stay inside myself as much as I am reaching out to other people.
It started during a game, laughter coloring our connections, but yet two, distracted by things the rest of us didn’t see. Until one member leaves and our fawn points out something that we had neglected to notice. I feel sick and shock. Usually I am the first to notice an edge to someone’s character and a darkness in their thoughts. Usually I am attuned to the room in a way most people would dismiss, but it’s as if there is an energy plane where everyone’s expressions, vocal inflection, and body language lay. That room is usually where I haunt, and where the feeling of everything haunts me. Yet I failed to notice the notes being passed. And when my friend asks are you okay, my other friend starts to sob. I crawl over as if a fire was lit beneath me. Desperately I press up against my friend, hoping that somehow the physical contact will slow the torrents of her soul. I curse, which I never do. I try to convey how much I care, and yet we all feel at a loss, unable to help her: she who is caught in the net of emotionally abusive parents who have told her that she is a burden. And she hadn’t told us. Instead she told the friend who left who in turn told her he was considering committing suicide.
Waves crash over us. Questions fly like arrows in war, and everything is blurry and bleak and muted. My friend of action took my hand and we walked towards the RA’s office. Outside the door I curse for the second time, tears welling in my eyes and I hug her as if she was my anchor to reality. Perhaps she was. The RA goes to talk with the suicidal friend, and it leaves us together, a group of five, many broken.
Pain fissures out. Pain always fissures out. My other friend, a mere passenger to this conversation, is triggered by the recent suicide of one of their closest friends, while still one cries about their burden. Hence the strange circle we are now in. Tonight everyone needs the comfort of physical reassurance. As my friend relives his best friend’s suicide, I slide my foot across his and apply pressure. It’s strange, but I feel it’s at some level comforting.
I could talk. I could say I’ve considered suicide, that I used to pray I would get hit by a car so that it would end and no one would know my struggles. I could say that so many of my friend’s have left me, and I wouldn’t even know if they’re still alive. I could say I’ve been terrified of losing people, that every joke about killing themself shot ice through my veins. I could say that I’m triggered by mentions of suicide, that I feel the pain of it so strongly that I could just explode. But I say nothing. Because I won’t commit suicide. I have bigger aspirations, bigger hope. And I fight for life. And I say nothing because I’ve never been great at admitting my deepmost struggles. Instead I sit and try and breathe life into my friends. “Stay,” I whisper. Stay.

Short thoughts of 09/09/16(12:40 AM)

This loneliness is not a feeling; it’s a state of existence. I am not someone who feels lonely. I am loneliness, just as one might embody good or honesty, my soul’s function is loneliness.
And beyond the loneliness, wandering, the sensation of never having a home, of never having a path to follow, and of never accepting myself fully, of never having a home in myself. My soul is homeless.
I wonder, and I wonder, and I wonder.
What if I could really be someone in English, as a professor, or as a philosopher?
What if the apprehension my chemistry causes is because my soul is calling me to some higher purpose?
What if my higher purpose is somewhere in the humanities?
What if writing is my solace, my state of mind?
What if I don’t actually care about living a comfortable life?
What if?
What if?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

The Inundating Wave of it all

I started college three weeks ago.  That’s not the important part.
Well it is… and I have so much to say on the matter, but the fact is that college has sliced open emotional wounds. And my heart is bleeding. It’s 12 AM and I should be sleeping or doing homework, but instead my heart is bleeding because I’m reading a story, a story about true devotion, not some trashy romance but a gentle story about two souls who have sustained each other through the most perilous hardships and betrayal. A story that is making my heart bleed because I’m crippled with a inundating wave of sadness, loneliness, gentleness, and a sense of raw admiration and need. I knew I was lonely. I knew I always felt alone and on the outskirts of everything, but something in my life and in that story aligned until I’m being crushed by the alone tonight, crushed by a feeling of intense torturous longing. That is the home of my heart tonight. It’s dreaming of the summer days behind my eyes and the words along scattered pages.