I could be reading.
Yes. I could be reading.
Letting the soft inky tendrils of someone elses' waking dream strangulate my brain until I forget everything.
But I cannot do that. Inevitably something in those type-faced ink-blots reminds me of me because I see what I want to see and I'm again reduced to sitting here.
Sitting here.
Seething.
If you asked me why I couldn't for the life of me hammer a nail into the grisly tail of a reason.
There are simply too many tails.
The lack of focus doesn't help. Setting my mind flipping like fickle silver-fish.
Strong emotions chased by bewilderment and confusion of what I was getting so worked up over in the first place.
Only to later have those feelings again well up and wash over, and endless rinse and repeat.
Inadequacy. Hate. Loathing. Anguish. Dread. Anxiety.
I no longer know what I want or need for myself, in innumerable ways.
I feel caged, cloyed, kept.
Society, the self, the others; they leer in.
There is no right answer. Simply that I am losing my mind.
Worse still, I can speak only to those who I know don't or won't really care.
For why this is, I do not know.
I need a kick up the ass;
but I'm wearing the boots.
