The only thing that keeps me from doing things yet also pushes me to doanything is the thought that eventually we’ll all be food for the wild animals we hunt. Sometimes to extinction. The ultimate act of karma. Just chunks of meat for the things that were here before us. That will be here after provided we as human beings don’t blow the planet up in our time here. The only thing that makes my legs function, the shuffling of someone so unsure, and my knees buckle in the same respect, is the mental image of a beautiful, mesmerizing grizzly bear tearing me apart. Skin from muscle, muscle from bone, and so on. The crunching and tearing, snapping and being consumed. Every bit of me being sucked from my bones as a mid day snack and the gross bits being left behind.
Depending on the day it’s enough to make me stay in bed, neath cover after cover after cover. A fortress of which only my cat is invited because she asks very little of me. What she does ask of me, they’re all through eye contact. Something so much easier to take in than the abrasive tones in some people’s voices. The highs and lows of their every feeling soaking each pronounced letter of every freshly picked word from their interesting minds tree. A look in the eyes is a much deeper connection than any word could ever grant you. (Side note: my cat is the only living creature I can look in the eyes longer than a few fleeting seconds.)
Other days its enough to make me contemplate jumping ship and running so fast, so far, I forget everything I know and start from scratch. Learn anything new. A deeper meaning, a life on an edge, on a wire, in the circus. Like a song or a magnificently written book.
It’s the same reason I do things so out of character at times. The same reason I make rash decisions and come to strange conclusions. The same reason I reached my hand into the pigs riches, the same reason I dipped my tongue in a bed of lies, the same reason I’ve pinned blame elsewhere time and time again like a tourist on vacation. Don’t worry, I’m not permanent.
Life exhausts me. Not in the way anything else could ever exhaust a person. Also not in the way that causes poor souls to step to the edge of a building and look down with one hundred percent confidence that they are making a good decision for themselves. Off of bricks and concrete on to softer thoughts and busy, hard sidewalks. Filled with people on their way to work, now with the image of something that they believe is so sad, so dark.
They don’t know that kind of escape.
It exhausts me in a way I can’t describe, not a single word seeming appropriate for the overwhelming bubbling that works its way through every bit of my body. It’s much like a constant state of confusion. Not inebriated confusion. Not a feeling similar to sexual confusion, gender confusion, love triangle confusion, but more like putting words together when you don’t know how to read. Maybe like being in a country where you’re the only one that doesn’t know the language and no one knows your native tongue. I don’t understand it, how to iron out the wrinkles, how to run from it. Sometimes I think that perhaps what I may be feeling… Is just me.
I don’t know how I feel about feeling me. Most days I want to drink are caused from the overwhelming doses of me I’ve been dealing with. Most days I want to go to bed early are caused by the heavy cloud of me that’s been boiling over the crown of my overstuffed head. At six p.m. with the sun still burning high in the sky. Some days while driving I don’t contemplate it, but I do imagine driving my scion straight into a semi truck. A brilliant display of twisting metal and fire on boring days. On my more creative days I live through it.
And I imagine feeling me wouldn’t be so bad anymore.