From an old journal, 2008, in the height of my anxiety. Reading it back I’m reminded of how many thoughts I had crammed in my head all at once, and how it felt like it could never end. 

it’s been too long, I haven’t had a change to sit, write, talk, sleep, think…

I feel guilty because for so much time in a day there seems to be so little that gets used, I don’t know where it goes anymore.

I need to write, anything but this, but this is important too I guess.

Soap suds, slippery feet. It’s the same in’s and out’s again. Same people in and out. Same words exhaled, thoughts inhaled. The broken dishes and memories floating upside down in dirty water. Abused through the passing in and out of peoples hands. I’m sick of thinking of work but it’s all there is besides school. Science teachers. They all look the same and they don’t know anything besides science. If they do, it’s somehow relatable to science. At least all of the teachers I’ve known. I’m not a person. I’m a bunch of cells. This isn’t a squirrel, it’s a sciencey italiano. She doesn’t know how to use word. She doesn’t know how to press the power button on the projector. It’s not so hard, but then again you don’t need to really know anything besides what’s in the textbook, right? I love taking classes with older woman. They mock us, making jokes about pot and minimum wage. Something about late work. I’m late to class. I’m having trouble catching up. Scribbles on the sides of my paper.

 

My mind wanders like this in and out. Everything coming to me at once. The fucking light making that fucking buzzing sound and the wailing of the teacher in the background. My foot itches at the same time of all of this and I don’t know which is bothering me more. The wailing, the light, or the itch in my foot. I try to attack it all at once and explode. My pen flying across the paper in frustrated scribbles, hoping something comes out of my hand that describes exactly whats going on through my head. I’m spinning and I can’t breathe. Inhale twice before exhaling, repeat. I’m here, I think I’m here. Maybe I’m back in bed and this is all a nightmare. My teacher wailes some more, whales, fuck, biology. I don’t know what we’re studying, just like I won’t know it the day the class ends. Words written down to please a textbook a teacher has only memorized, and not by heart, just by head. It’s the lack of pleasure for something you do for a living that makes me go insane. I want to shake her back and forth.

I want to live in a lighthouse.I want to eat pasta for dinner every night and have a pair of jeans that I could wear to bed. I want to see my brain, take it out of my head and look at it. Find the part that tells me exactly what I just saw so I can see it all again and take in all the little things. All the big, obvious things. I want a new laptop, I want a back that doesn’t ache. A back that can stand, and sit, and lay down, and do all of the above without aching so bad. I want some caffeine but I want some sleep more. Most of all I want to run away and be something new. I want painkillers and peanut butter and some tea would be nice. My writing teacher has a funny face. She’s short. I’m not entirely sure what qualifies someone to be a writing teacher. What makes someone have the ability to look at something someone else has written and say it’s not good enough? Spelling? Grammar? Fine-

I want to write what I want to write and I want that to be good enough, because it is. And for that, I shouldn’t need a teacher. Maybe a computer with spellcheck. I want a typewriter. I want a typewriter so I can hear that click click click ca ching. I want more things with pleasureable sounds in my room. A typewriter. A little fountain. I want some flowers. I want some flowers really bad. I guess I want some nice things for my senses. Smell. Sound. Sight. I don’t want to eat. I’m sick of feeling full. I want to swim until my stomach cramps up and then crawl out and pass out in the sun until I’m tan, tight, warm, and happy. I want a thick magazine with slippery shiny pages that slide together as I turn them.

I want to read it in the sand and when I open it at home all of the sand will slide out of the pages into my house. I want sand everywhere. I want to smell the ocean. I want to smell flowers in the air. I want to go to hawaii. I want to go anywheere. I want to be so far away I can escape my cell phone. I can escape my responsibility. I can escape the smell of my laundry soap and the way my clothes smell. So when I come home, it’s twice as nice. Like falling into something familiar. I want friends all over the world. I want friends I can stay in touch with. I want to be there but at the same time I’m not, and I don’t care enough to try. It’s the worst part, but I don’t care? I want new sheets. I want new memories. I want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I’m everywhere all at once. Scatter brained. I want to feel complete.

I want to not give a shit and accept what I cant not accept. It’s the nagging in my head, that I can do anything I want so what do I really want? Tissues. Tea. Thanksgiving turkey and everyone smiling despite their mood. Except that one time. I make eveeryone cry, and I don’t care. I want sparkling cherry cider and bitter toasts. My face on the rug, fireplace, cat hair, running my fingers through the memories in the bricks. Things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. None of this can really makee sense to anyone else. And at the pace my head is moving it wouldn’t make sense to me either.

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