akaCLL

each week passes by the next. i am folded over in joy, relief, hysteria, gratitude, fear, anxiety, guilt, confusion. today i only wanted to fold into myself, to shut the door and reel the blinds down down down, engulf myself in its sub-effective shade in the middle of the day. my clock runs on class timetables, my nights often planned out according to readings for the next day, time in between for all the activities, the talks, the new friends. today i only wanted to fold into myself, to commit to the crucial understanding that everything and its attached anxiety is what i make it to be, that what i do now and the choices that i make will only make a groove on the course of my future... that the future is an overrated preoccupation of the restless subconsciousness.

it is with growing self-awareness that i realise and am therefore appalled by the rate which the mind works. that i cannot remember not thinking, processing, extrapolating, feeling, supposing, and most importantly weighing every little decision that i make on a scale so intrinsically entrenched. is this a good use of my time? is this the intellectual/responsible thing to do? is this my priority? should i do something else first? what is the underlying purpose of my such action? what am i trying to achieve without my own knowledge? how is this going to affect my future? what if tomorrow... what if next week...?

i don't have everything figured out. maybe sometimes it's so much more disappointing because i think i do, every time i grasp on to a flailing vine in the labyrinth of writhing, wet, suffocating jungle. each recovery and thus each day is a white lie then. some self-deceit necessary in believing that one can go on with her life despite the wars waging within her, just because some days the dust kicked up by the heat of the battle clears up and some blue of the sky shows, making it possible to walk the corridors and greet "yes I'm good how about you?" -- but there is no such thing as ceasefire. the blood still pours and covers the earth, seeps into the soil and dyes it deep red or blue-black, or yellow, with time. "life is full of suffering".  a full-stop i place to resist myself for i have rationalised and compartmentalised a thought i have deemed it below standards i have deemed it weak and i engage in self-censorship.

i want the world to go on without me... i want time to merely pass over like water while i take a breath, i just need a couple breaths, i just want to decide when i do what i do because there are so many deadlines and i puncture them into my skin with pushpins they make my heart sag like a grandmother's skin. and i say this and yet i don't do the things pinned by deadlines and what right do i have to complain i complain all i do is complain all i do is weak and all i do is complain.

i put on a show everyday. i am a performer. i don't know what is real, in class they said only the one who tells the lie knows the truth but all i know is lies, how can that be?