Precipice

Standing at the precipice of fear, with baited breath.  Sensations heightened, and numbed.  Wind flowing across skin, raises goosebumps, captures each escaping breath with zeal.  The roaring of the ocean pounds against each eardrum, the salt air begs to coat each living lung. Alluring vertigo drags the mind towards the sharp wet rocks sanded to silky smooth perfection at the bottom.  A whirlpool of colors; malevolent greens, transfixing blues, churn endlessly, eating at the cliffbase.  Waves like multitudinous yearning hands rise and fall out of the sea, grabbing at the passive cliff face, fading into uniform obscurity at the razorsharp horizon, giving way to endless sky.  Encasing and pressing, the featureless indigo dome stands on my head.  Inspiring, the throbbing pain behind my eyeballs.

My sight, escapes me.

Limbo

I'm so tired of this limbo I find myself in.  I wish my calculated patience were not also a convenient excuse towards prolonged inaction.  I wish I were not so terrified.  The consistent presence of that fear, hanging over me and seeming to gnaw away at the satisfaction in any given moment, makes it very difficult for efforts to seem. worth it.  I can't help but feel that some days are spent in a sort of hibernation, waiting, hoping that by some chance convenience the monster under the bed will be gone.  in a few hours maybe.  in a few days.  in a few months.  The time whittles away while I hold my breath and hope that nothing will happen, that will shake me to breaking.

And the pride.

I want to be brave enough to swallow it, fears and pride whole, bear the terrible sting of it but go out there, and live.

If only I could rest assured that it would all finally burn up in the acid of my resolution and permanently. leave. me. alone.

Hey ADD,

Fuck you.

Calm

Things are strange now.  After a long time, finally a sort of calm has settled into my life, I don't feel that I'm at the cusp of one impending disaster after another.  All there is to do now is wait, and work.  Now the test is only a test of my own character, at least its one I feel I have a possibility of passing this time around.  I'm trying my best to pick up the pieces, and account for the knots in my plan that I myself am bound to create.  Overcompensating, and overdoing is the only way I see of making it out of this successfully, I need that room to fail a little, but just not catastrophically.  I'm worried about complacency, of feeling too optimistic, and too comfortable.  That sick pervading feeling that's lingered through so many recent moments is terrible to bear, but it also has the power to propel me forward.  Without that extra push I'm easily tempted towards inaction and failure, and I know there is at least some small part of me that would love to see me crash and burn.

Ctrl+Z?

Shit.

Stagnation

I hate the constant back and forth.  The slow and agonizing tug of war between my innate nature and the distant person I must resolve to become in order to have any chance of life in this reality, with these parameters.  I am the rope, the forces on either side bend and break my twisted bones, they crack me open, the loose, sinewy strands of myself flit uneasily in the constant tumult of my head, roaring through this place, cutting away everything that was once here to an eerie and sterile finish.  The dark volcanic glass shines with a cold and engineered malice, in every surface my own face stares back, pathetically empty eyes, the terrain itself engenders this feeling, imbues me with this strong and subtle self-hate.  It shows me who I am, standing still, standing lost, wandering this endless nothing where nothing grows. 

I am not myself and I am not what anyone wants me to be.  I fail to progress in either direction, in any direction.  I am stranded on this abysmal plateau, stretching infinitely in all directions.  A vast nothing to aspire towards. I've been here too long.  The stagnant air of this place, this feeling, has penetrated into every pore of my skin, and further still into my bones, the soft and slick organ tissue, the red hot blood coursing through my veins.  It runs through my body, it drives me towards paralysis, weighs me down, intangible poison of my own concoction, disease of the mind.  And soul. 

Insulation

Time moves forward, breakneck speed, roaring past me, crushing me to dust, overwhelming my lungs.  But my stubborn nature compels me to live in a stupid denial that leads me to live as though I'm insulated in a bubble devoid of time or existence.  The air will still run out some time.