i feel stupid and alone and sad and incompetent and numb

i am a tiny vessel of instinct and self-deprivation, fleeing from

and it’s true, i finally understand the addicts in the books

like reading harry potter and wondering what it’s like to have bad eyes

how it would change my sight, i could not imagine

now

i cannot see 1.5 metres clearly without help.

Wise are those who have knowledge about human existence - including the world in which humanity exists - that is not straightforward.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to share those wonders of the world that have currently captured your interest and imagination with people you care for.

I sail no ship but my own

although I have often joined course with many a differing fleet

I have listened (yet never answered) to their captains and admirals

added my cannon fire and speed to the loves and the wars

and although eventually I always set out to traverse new oceans and seas

my lingering allegiance equally leaves their mark on the colours I fly

to adore is so much more satisfying than to be adored

that’s what you get for staying in bed

that’s what you get for not going to bed

they bleed into each other endlessly

these things mess me up

I am fascinated, kind of stuck, the first steps

then I come too far

it becomes systematic, something twists inside

clashes

a lack of care, of love, of being valued

I’ll be returning to fluffy fluff poured in smooth soft words

I suppose, back to basics

(it just makes me feel bad, there isn’t the right balance)

I feel like, or maybe it is so.

I don’t create opportunities for myself, they are handed to me,

and I try to take them, with heart or more often half

I become lethargic and apathetic and sad

But I don’t feel I would have survived without all that good fortune, that I am not the resilient kind

Does that make me, in itself, a bad person, for not being able to value the opportunities I have been given?

For not being able to make the most of them?

I forget what life is like when there isn’t easy-peasy escapism available at any time, running myself ragged (it’s a constant state of mind)

I want to wrap myself up in sleep and dreams and mine, others’ mental creations, wasting wasting wasting - safe and warm

(from responsibility, obligations, insecurity, effort, guilt)

I write and I think; I got the balance almost almost right

Not just to me, but to others

But it still, lacks, lacks, something

Is this lacking enough to let it go?

Probably not, I’ll always want

(although I’ve learned not to, maybe too much)

Is this it then? The difference between me and you?

What is easy and what is valued, interactionally related

Sometimes I think,

I won’t get there, I have nothing to share, I am not eloquent

I am not capable of realising simultaneously

that, for example, I am (everything)

In the face of such skill, such talent, such ease, such experience, such determination

My own lack of everything necessary

How will I ever distil even a part of this fuzzy fluid whole of world view into a story

and imbue it with life?

(sometimes I feel disgusted with my petty problems, but I have good defences)

and what do I want anyway?

(and yet i am ever hopeful, because youth means so much time left

-ah but not determined, because there is so much time left)

I feel lonely bleeding into pointless

(and I go looking, looking)

anything, anything but falling short

i’d rather not jump at all

rather than calculating, taking my time to judge my steps

i’d wait for a last desperate shot of adrenaline to carry me over

i’d wait for exhaustion to blur the future, to stop me caring (altogether)

or streamline me into flawed single-mindedness and purpose

awareness

it means being simultaneously conscious of multiple perspectives and being in control of one’s own emergence levels, always aiming to perceive as many chains and webs of implications as possible, expanding on one’s own personal clarity*

it is the opposite of

ignorance

-B.D
*of delusion