"We build too many walls and not enough bridges."

Anxiety Attack (to be continued)

This is not a diary. This is not here to help keep track of what I’ve experienced, however much my memories seem to be a drain. Clogged, filled with the lose split ends of my hair I was too lazy to brush. This exists and that is all, like I exist- scared. Did I create this world? Well perhaps in a scientific way, there’s proof. The artist, a creator, through perception. 

MUST CHANGE THE FUCKING SUBJECT.

Um… I miss you.. fuck who is “you”? Where are “you”? So I can avoid my existential crisis. 

Never mind.

I’m scared to die, I’m sacred my mother is going to die- every day. Without her how could I feel real? She’s the only living proof I have that I came from something concrete. That I just didn’t make my life up and yours. 

“1+1=2 , 2+2=4, 4+4=8”

inhale, exhale

My body hurts less now. My vision doesn’t feel so spotted with black circles and blind spots. As if my brain regained proper circulation, not hurting to exercise it, no more pins and needles. 

Always Unfinished Business

I started taking pictures recently because I felt no connection to my past. However, as I recollected on them I realized I started to harbor too much nostalgia. I miss him too much as it is without the reminder.

I’ll attempt to find the most comfortable spot I can in my bed but without him my mattress is uneven. Too high on one side from consistent absence and sunken in on the other. It is perhaps a blatant metaphor, he unknowingly balances my extreme personality characteristics. 

Besides the reliable empty bed, there is one other consistency I’ve noticed. Right as I train myself to find comfort, I’ll sigh the words “I miss you so much.” 

As soon as I wake up, I check all signs that maybe he thought of me. No call, no messages, no notifications. I’ll tread through the list of excuses why he didn’t contact me and why I should contact him- but I never do.

I didn’t believe in it until recently. The way we met accommodated my anxiety. I didn’t stutter and it portrayed extroversion. My nose which typically would have started to feel as if I suddenly had allergies and reaction that looked as if I was snorting something were missing but not missed. There was a five minute gap of time that decided I would meet him, and I didn’t believe in it then either. Every encounter after the very first was not forced. I’ve never ran into someone accidentally so many times. A greeting was never necessary and our eyes somehow always found each other. Even if that’s all it was, it was all I needed to believe in fate.

Note to self:

*insert introversion writing perhaps?*

*to be continued

next topic: timing, hurting heart

To be continued eventually.

My insecurities, derived from what I thought others would say about me. I could not hear their whispers loud enough to be certain, assuming only horrible things would be kept secret. A soft “F” sound was an overheard certainty, triggering a peripheral glance and suddenly I believed I had super sonic hearing. Despite my lack of self-esteem, I still was under the impression I knew precisely what every human being was thinking. I developed a severe misconception for denying individuality. Again, I can only assume It was because I saw myself as nothing special, like everyone else. Therefore, everyone must be internalizing the same beliefs I had about myself. It’s almost egotistical. Scratch that, it’s disgustingly egotistical. 

Children, I am literally talking about children, even though most adults like myself still behave in such a fashion that resembles their tiny being, tenaciously think through their eyes and disregard the idea of filtering their spoken words. Similar to a dog, it sees something it has to bark. Did the dog for one second consider, “hey maybe this growling noise is frustrating to the person who keeps me healthy each day”? No, they are purely instinctual.  So perhaps, young humans malfunctioning empathy could be my scapegoat. They’re innocent ridicule, the destroyer of my confidence. 

This slight scrape of childhood, however, presented itself not to be consciously prevalent. Instead, it manifested into a masochistic desire to attain some of the most inherently evil adults as lovers. I knew they had no idea of love and had not even the slightest motivation to acquire it. This was not a bat of ignorance, but pure stupidity. Frozen to an idea, their obvious venal personalities fixed in my psyche, that I was not capable of deserving more. The secret of the success of their malicious yet unsubstantiated goal was indecisiveness. Their unpredictable behavior could not be processed through a mind so set on control to the point of releasing the anxiety of not knowing what others thought by postulating that everyone was synonymous to herself. 

I could have wrote something poetic, but I just couldn’t think straight. All the lines were there but unorganized to the point where I couldn’t even process what I was trying to portray. It might of had to do with describing those pretty hazel eyes but that was always his line, not mine. Could of had to do with the man I met but never knew. The fact that he never got to see the end of this war just like I will never get to know who he was. Might have been a story of a post anxiety attack, a mental breakdown and how I realized I was much better than it. Including my newly found self confidence, poise I only used to see in others I envied, brought on by reaching a sought out goal and receiving continuous praise that slapped me in the face out of love because I wouldn’t accept it. Should have been about how I can’t stand that I love being loved but won’t give the same love back because I don’t know how it could be appropriate without leading them on. Definitely would have been about a temporary neglect of friendship due to reasons I felt selfish yet I proclaimed I understood while somehow genuinely learning to understand.  I felt I should never confess how I see those around me as less intellectual, not in an arrogant way but in a way that contributes to my subconscious desire to alienate myself. I knew I would never again write a poem about a boy, and I stress boy despite the appearance of being a man, who’s arrogance to which I lacked proved to be the motivation I needed to realize my self worth. How despite being insanely in love with an idea I didn’t want to admit I could not ever picture correctly, am now incredibly embarrassed and angry. I wish I could explain how I need someone who incorporates my mentality, emotional capabilities, comfort, appeal, and humor without taking advantage of my willingness to bend so as I do not break. Could I even describe how each individual I choose to nag at for attention and affection gives me satisfaction of one of my criteria but never all? If I did, I would have to imply that I am grateful so as not to feel guilty for receiving anything I want. Is this possible or perhaps do I need to begin writing a novel?

I know I shouldn’t write for recognition, but sometimes it’s frustrating when it goes unnoticed. It’s like talking to yourself or getting interrupted when you are venting. I write for myself, that’s audience I want to impress, but it would be nice if others could appreciate it too. I feel like writing is a dead art. No one wants to read anymore even if it meant understanding the person better or feeling some emotion. Everyone on this website just wants to stare aimlessly at pictures of pretty girls or laugh momentarily at a meme making fun at other’s expense. Not read. Not think about how beautiful life is. Not try to comprehend how the brain works. Not listen to intelligent music. It’s like you all have adhd now from the internet. Can’t focus on something for more than a second.