i'm learning to love myself

Today, a sadness has consumed me, a sadness that has not been so near me for a long time. I am supposed to be so happy. Why aren’t I happy?

The sadness eats away at me until I am nothing more than an outpouring of life, a diffusion of built-up emotion and thought from my chest into the world around me. It feels as if the outpouring will soon cease, and I will finally be empty.

I am lost, and I become more lost with each passing day. Am I digging myself into some kind of hole, or am I digging myself out? At this point, I have been digging for so long that I have lost sight of why and for what exactly I am digging. Some part of me keeps pushing, though. Some part of me keeps telling me to dig and dig, and to dig deeper into this chasm of uncertainty. What am I? Am I trapped in the iron grasp of some exhaustive, unseen fist?

And still, as all the fog surrounds me, I continue to sit here, wondering if I reek of fear or freedom.

It seems I may never know.

earthdad:

I think the Ghostbusters have it all wrong. We should accept ghosts into our society, treat them as valued members, and make it easier for them to find jobs and homes. We need less GhostBUSTERS and more GhostLOVERS!!!

When I feel most alone, inspiration comes to me and gives me this need, this thirst to write and to express myself in more than just noises that erupt from my mouth and soon disappear into the air around me. Everything I do seems so insignificant lately, though, so I ask myself if this even matters. My fingers, dashing across the keyboard and working to fill this page, this rectangular white void before me, adhere to my mind’s every command. Is their work justifiable or simply worthless? Empirically, I am so small.

Splattering my thoughts against any spare space that I can dig up, or writing, as my contemporaries call it, adjusts the cap on the pot of boiling water that is my mind. The water, my thoughts, overflows and bubbles to a volume almost incapable of being held by a single jar. However, as the cap is lifted to allow the water to move freely in all its forms, a portion of vapor is released into the outside world, and the chaos in the pot is momentarily hushed. Peace remains until the lid is replaced once more.

This metaphor encounters its downfall only in that the cap of a literal pot is often kept off the container of water so that it remains calm. The cap to the thoughts in my mind, however, must always be replaced immediately after I finish my typing.

What forms this “lid” which traps me within myself? I am extremely uncertain about the answer to such a question. Simultaneously, I am quite certain that I would have nearly self-combusted on many occasions if I did not have my writing. I often wonder, do other people possess this restraining cap, or is it simply a characteristic of my own? I believe the answer to this question is very obvious, and I am nearly certain.

Each pot comes with a lid, does it not?

But how, then, do the others tolerate their imprisonment within their own minds? Why is this not mentioned often, if we all do, in fact, experience this phenomenon?

I can only assume that we are all ceaselessly on the edge of our own individual destruction.