Of thinking too much

So it's a little past 8 AM here on Sunday morning. I'm lying on my stomach in bed, staring outside my window at the sunlight hitting the tops of buildings and shadowing streets where cold people walk faster into the warmth. I'm trying to think of what it is I ate last night that is making my stomach feel this way, like a wrench stuck in the tumble dry. The only conclusion I can make is that I've created knots; I've physically tied my organs together because I cannot let go of worry, amongst a whole conundrum of intangibilities (yes I realize that is not a real word). The worst, I suppose, is that I have to qualify why I feel this way. And when I'm done carving out the insides and peeling the skin of logic, it becomes mildly apparent that I, all too fast, sacrifice my body to paranoia. I give my mind and the limbs it controls up to a feeling I get, a single emotion, a thought process. Is it just another manifestation of the person I really am? Do I have to be doing this because I trust my emotions before I trust other people? Sometimes that fine line between logic and emotion gets blurred, like rubbed pencil marks on a sheet of notebook paper where you are told to discover yourself, lest life discover you first. Still, the question remains of how to deal. The old receptors of comfort are completely out of the question- no more getting fucked up because I want to feel good. The one who knows me better than I know myself says to take these little acorns and talk through them, outloud, to the one who shook the branches in the first place. While that tactic is always a hit or miss, it is probably the right one, and in the end I am handing over the power of controling uncertainty to someone else. But me, knowing me, and knowing that I don't really think things through in terms of logic, will choose the path I should have probably been following all along, until things like laziness, trips to Mexico, and this crazy thing called the internet that ruins lives became the ruins of failed attempts at peace. Be mindful, be completely engaged, and don't run away from my problems. Don't run away from my worries. Just don't run away this time. Live my life honestly, and continue to start from the heart. It's gotten me this far already, and I have to trust that it will get me up and out of this hole I've dug for myself. Live in the Now. Because paranoia involves events that have happened, and apprehension for events that might not even come true. Human beings will always never know what human beings are thinking, unless it's the thought process that happens in our own skull. That's the only thing we can control, right? Still. The feeling of a feeling taking me over will always be the precurser of why I can't get the fuck out of bed.

.

My heart is beating irregularly fast. Like freakishly fast. I feel like I just ran six blocks. I can feel it through my neck. This doesn't really feel healthy. I also had a ridiculous migraine.. wait.. have a ridiculous migraine. Where did this come from? I swear I was fine two hours ago. Temperature change? Weather? Now I feel whispy and like I'm gonna pass out. But my heart is still beating like a maniac. What is going on. Now I can kind of feel my heart.. like, i can actually FEEL my heart on my skin. This is not normal. Fever? No idea. Bad timing, probably. Maybe because my body feels lazy. I didn't get home til 2 pm today. Afterward, I did nothing. I just need to get over this feeling of being sick sick sick

my arm itches

So. It's Friday, almost one week after getting back from New York. I really wasn't ready to leave. I wish I was there right now, actually. 

 This past week has been pretty terrible in some ways, lackluster in others, and just overall "blah." More days than not, I've needed motivation to get out of bed. It's the same, it's never changed, I don't want to be back yet. Jill seems to think it's because I run away from everything in my life, and while that might be true, you can't deny that karma has its way of showing you your biggest faults and everything you hate about yourself in other people. The Cleve event was insane. People had a great time, I guess. I was in a daze for a majority of it and pretty much living in altered states in the in-between of it. I just feel like I should be inspired to the tip of my toes.. instead, I wish I were back in New York. Mainly so I don't have to deal with this. 

 How long will something continue to be a pattern until you realize how detrimental it is to your well-being? Isn't that something worth preserving, worth fighting for? These last couple of days have been a reminder of how intense I used to fall into rituals. And while I haven't completely fallen this time, I can't help but think it won't ever be different, that the effort I used to put into structuring and re-structuring is all a product of waste.. waste waste waste, time wasted, efforts wasted, emotions wasted, being wasted.. wasted, everything just wasted. I thought I had escaped it. I hadn't. There's always going to be a part of me that will always crave it, always need it, and you know what? If it shapes who I am, then so be it. Be it, whatever. In my quest for peace, I always forget about myself. I've been in a funk for a long ass time, and I'm losing. Focus. FOCUS. "It's like you have the Charlie Brown syndrome.. the whole team's behind you, on your side, waiting for you to take charge, and god dammit all you need to do is take charge!"

 

it is what it is and it ain't what it ain't

I need to feed my creativity. I need to keep it busy. I need to do what I love or else what I live for is not worth the fight. But mostly, I need to keep busy.

Love is not an energy that just comes and goes.. it's a chameleon; that energy transforms itself into other forms and there must be some organization to its growth when manifested into art. The repression of that passion, whether formulated by circumstance or happenstance, is what pulls the spirit down into a place not easy to crawl out of, and can only be rescued by the willpower to hone the thing that flows so naturally from the tips of your fingers. Mine is music.

I got this idea from a) Aviva Jaye, telling me about her friend who wrote one minute of music, a complete thought all figured out, every day of August, when I went to visit New York; and b) Mike Patton.

I am going to write something every single day in September. No rules. Just a documentation of it.

I won't allow myself to fall into that place.