July 25th, 2016
I'm stressing out. All the time has gone away and my work is unfinished. This pressure builds up and up under my ribs, threatening to explode, shatter my bones and pierce my skin. Each of my joints starting from my feet to my ankles to my knees fall away and with them I start crashing, crashing through the floorboard and through the earth until I reach incineration and nothingness. I'm falling into fear and an inescapable tomb of my anxiety which pushes me every which way with ferocity, fueling my body and my head with fear and screeching, yelling with all their might to move, to stay, to go, to do, until the pressure condenses me into a filthy smudge, with no better thought than to lie and rot until there is nothing left in any universe or aspect of my self. I cannot move I cannot process, I am not even living in my mind. I have died, or been pushed aside unto a stasis of immobility. I feel so helpless, trapped by my own darkness, and all of this, everything I felt, was within a single second of my sitting on the couch. This drop of oily sickness burrows itself into my subconscious like a parasite and spreads through my body and time until I can't even tell what time is. I'm becoming a grub, a pitiful, dysfunctional, defective member of society. Suddenly that's all I've ever been and ever will be. I question my purpose but I can't find one. I'm nothing but ash.
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I Write Weird Things
RandomA collection of thoughts, poetry and short stories written over a long period of time.
