it’s not the flu.
it’s my mind.
i’ve been writing in the notebooks i keep within arms reach off and on all day long. some of it is alright, i suppose. i don’t really like anything that i write. if i really like it, it usually has nothing to do with the subject but more with the diction or phrasing or adjectives. sometimes it’s just about the way it looks or feels.
if i really, really like what i have written i don’t post it.
i usually throw it away and then try to do it better, which is starting to freak me out. my paranoia has me thinking that i’ll never be who i was, or never write the way i used to after this very moment because things have changed. because i have changed. in the next second, something has changed. something in the world is different. someone is dying. someone is being born. nothing will ever be the same.
everything is constantly changing inside my head and inside my heart. i don’t know who i am anymore and i think it’s starting to kill me. sometimes it’s slow, like when i try to sleep. sometimes it’s during the day when i’m at work and it happens all at once and it takes a quick trip outside for fresh air and to gag on an empty stomach before i can find my lungs and calm my heart.
are you comfortable? are you listening? are you reading?
buckle up friends. whatever is lurking inside my head is not for the faint of heart and i’m sorry to say that you have to be the audience that watches me gut myself on such a grand stage.