I don’t know what to write anymore.
It’s not for a lack of inspiration or motivation. It’s simply, I do not know how to move forward.
It’s times like these where I say to myself, ‘Why did I choose this? Why did this choose me?’ and I hate every facet of it. I hate words and I hate sentences. I hate virtual ink on a virtual page. I end up hating myself.
I felt strange today. I couldn’t drive normally – almost made a bad left turn – and all music sounded like loopy, numb, calliope constructions. I couldn’t understand any of it or my surroundings. I couldn’t understand myself.
When I was little, I used to experience a different sort of strange I couldn’t put into words – it was a hypersensitive, hyper-realization of being alive. My eyes would wobble in their sockets; my limbs would go fuzzy, yet everything was clearer than it should’ve been. Life itself suddenly separated from me, as if it were a reversal of the traditional out-of-body experience. The effervescence of life, like a vortex, vacuumed back into me like a molecular explosion. My breaths would hitch in my throat. Smells catapulted my nose and tastes were exemplified, even the grubby hint of morning on my tongue.
It terrified me. Mostly because I thought it meant I was really supposed to be dead. As if it were a mistake that I was alive, and that this was a spiritual glitch in my life-force, an angry attack against me.
It still happens once in a blue moon. I’ll get an ‘attack’ and I’ve learned how to get through it. There’s no discernible reason for its cause, and no, there’s no name.
Today – today I almost willed for it to happen. I wanted so badly to cease to exist. Very quietly, like an alien abduction, a vaporized disintegration. I wanted so badly to seep back into the fabric of my seat, then the metal of the car, then the cement on the street. I wanted to flatten like a pancake and stay that way, always looking at the sun.
Or to float away. Red balloon. Float away like I let float away a ‘We Miss You!’ balloon to honor my grandfather’s death when I was little. My mother had told me it was headed for heaven.
I want to feel constellations in my grasp. I want to drift amongst planets and galactic explosions of light.
I fucking hate the greasy smack of Los Angeles, of any city, of this country. Sometimes I lean back and close my eyes and think about when I’ll go back to Paris under sweeter conditions. Sometimes I think I might live there forever and meet a nice man and have two kids and we’ll take walks to the cemetery under the bridge. I think about the perpetual Parisian dew in the air. The breads. Oh, the bread.
Sometimes I wish for everyone to feel this completely and utterly numb.
Just the other day, though, I cried in my car and it was the first time I’d cried in ages, and I laughed through tears because it was a miraculous thing I should cry again, really cry. And now all I want is to cry.
I start and I stop. I write and I trash.
I am but I’m not.