I can't quite place it. It's a strange feeling really. I'm not the most literate of people, nor do I know big words which can help my writing flow with a certain edge, but I can at least attempt to make it simple.
Even as I write, as I think, I realise that nothing ever really... Turns out the way I want it to, or gets completed at all. It's always changing, always ending up something completely and utterly different. Although sometimes that can be wonderful, the majority of the time it is completely discouraging.
If I had to put it into words... I'd have to say that there is this strange light, airiness on my chest. It's not heavy, nor suffocating, but it's just like a warm air is wrapping itself around my ribs. It's pretty easy to tell that it is there, what, with the way it sends my the back of my head spinning and stops me from being able to open my eyes wide with young, natured excitement. As I said, I can't quite tell what it is, but I know it is there.
That's part of the problem. Maybe it's boredom, a desire for some excitement. No word of a lie, I could use some of that in my life. However, some part of me feels as though this is something far, far, more dangerous.
If I had to refer it to something, it's like standing on a tightrope, my toes curling around the wire, desperately trying to cling on whilst the audience roars and throws me off balance, causing me to tremble. It is so intense in fact, that I believe it's no wonder many lose their minds, with the stillness in my mind yet complete chaos which causes my bones to grate together in an unsatisfactory amount of pain.
What's more strange, however, is that I don't think I'm losing my mind, nor do I think I'm crazy. In a poetic phrase, it's like I'm slowly walking into the ocean, a comfortable feeling entrapping my body. Of course, I don't feel this feeling all of the time, and it's not something which concerns me, as I've grown quite familiar with it, but I just figured I try and place it into words so I can try and place it myself.
I can't. It's like static, and I'm trying to make stuff out through the black and white and grey dots without any hope. I try to make it out in my therapy sessions, but then out comes a load of stuff which isn't really happening at all. Some of it is true, some of it isn't, and I can't seem to articulate my words correctly, a smile appearing when I'm angry, and I nod displaying itself when I disagree.
Maybe I'm just trying to make myself seem way more wounded then I am, in hopes that people won't leave me. That's a tad bit repulsive, isn't it? By a tad bit, I mean it is quite, utterly disgusting. It's not my fault. It is really, and it's because of the hollowness in my throat that I feel needs to be filled, even though it doesn't.
I could change my life myself, referring back to the boredom. Yet, I feel as though, even if I did, I wouldn't feel any excitement. Eating, drinking, sleeping, I'm not quite sure what it is-
I'm just stuck, standing still in the middle of the tightrope, the wire growing finger between my sore toes as I place my arms out wide, everyone below screaming as water fills up the tent, a spiral of red and white above me.
Sometimes I wish I was the wind. Disasterous and powerful, I could flow around the earth and bring people horror and destruction, as well and joy and happiness instead of being like dust, gathering as things grow old, never experiencing anything more than the colour grey.
