It's in the amniotic fluid of everyday breath and air,
tjat stale inhale, that coughing exhale,
that feeling that someone's already drank from this glass,
the lipstick marks red,
this inhale previously occupied somebody's,
well, somebody's exhale,
and to be frank, it's a little morbid to think that along these lines,
or those,
somebody got lost alnog the way,
so really, you're breathing dead man's air, and it wreeks of misbehaviour
It's the final shake down I guess, but sometimes I think that I'm not on a time bomb ticking clock, and a week from this moment will not be my actual birthday, and I will not turn into one of those self centered come-on-its-my-birthday girls. I'm a slow cooker of disaster on my birthday, and I wish I was joking.
I want to think about this, really, because I remember that when I was little my birthday usually enjoyed big bird and cute dresses and dancing, on my part, and really nothing's changed. Swap big Bird for HP and throw a little wobble into the dancing and really I'm the same old me. My hair's a nit lighter, but not for long.
It's a part of departure, I guess. I have this thing called separation anxiety, meaning when something leaves me or something changes I have a hard time adjusting. This is self diagnosed, but I feel that all neurosis is initially self diagnosed, so why not. I want to say that I am saying good riddens to me teens, but I am sort of unsettled about walking in on my adult self.
I don't know if I'll like her.
If I met me right now, I would want to be my friend. I mean, I think that I wouldn't be such a bad friend. Yeah, I complain too much and think too bad about myself and don't text or talk to enough people enough, but the people I do focus on are cared about and loved and nurtured, let alone all around fantastic people. If I met myself, I'd be happy with the situation.
But adult.. Adult. A D U L T. Wh is that so daunting? Why can't I wrap my head around this? Why can't something so simple and passerby like the world's birth beyond be like me? I am only a fleck on the skin of a zebra grazing and running, cantering, trotting through the wilderness. You all won't know, but I just used about twelve words from different classes that I had today and I am quite proud.
I already pay bills, and book appointments, the only thing I really can't do for myself is drive. I don't drive because, well, more different anxiety, but these anxieties go only as far as my capabilities wil, and I am no longer safe to drive a vehicle.
Could it be that I just want to make a fuss about all of this? In all reality, I know I'm not turning an old age, and nobody's majing a huge deal about it anyway. In my head, twenty is massive. Yeah, I can't drink or drive or rent cars or anything that the ages surrounding twenty can, but it is two decades of life. It is an era. It is the cusp of the rest of my life.
Actually, everyday, every morning day, is the cusp of the rest of your life.
But in all reality I wish my family in particular would make a bigger deal about this. I know that everything is fucked and bs right now, but really, come on. I need something here. I'd like to be acknowledged, I'd like to be told that 'wow Jess, you're turning twenty, way to have made it, that's incredible, my oldest daughter is twenty" Nada. Ah well, maybe that'll come a week from now, but I don't know if I'm expecting anything.
I don't expect much anymore, none of us do.
Hypnotic, the ease and wind buzzing sopurrs around ym house are, it's this numbing feeling that I realised right now I wrote about last summer in my writing rage, my six hour delve into my psychosis and my new literature baby. My intravenus of insane writing crap that I love, but it is all describing this feeling of being trapped.
Purple. I think, well, purple like her feet, they were the feet that I turned..purple. The walls, the walls that were eggshell white ten second ago turned, jabbed a purple blazing fire into my eyelids burning, blazing, why was it not anymore the inner shell of the hot coffee mug of hell I was living in, it was purple, like her feet. Her feet were purple I remember cause I saw when they pulled me away, I wished anything but purple today and yet here I was crouching, losing my mind but not crouching because I couldn't move, and I am on the middle of the last tape deck song in my head, the last inch the last gravitating memory of groundedness, keeping me in this dimension, or, this, this inside. This interior. I can't yell, I tried, to ask why it was purple like her feet but her feet were purpke but weren't like this, sort of, they were more.. Bruised. This was more of an alarm, a warning but not because I know it once they trapped me here once the doors were locked but what doors? They must've air lifted my ass down to this fucker, down into the eggshall purple mug that was cooking me, heating up my insides radioactively. Her feet. The tape deck ended, the white noise and her feet. Her feet. HER FEET. and then it happened, well it didn't really happen but I screamed out loud and louder, and louder and until that purple shook the air infront of my eyes it shook I took it louder. But my eyes were locked shut, and they wouldn't let me get past this purple, the eggshell white mug turned purple, and only above me was teasing me, not purple, but deep dark red, no sky, no sky for me tonight no sky for me any night because the purple was drowning me under the blood red sky. The blood red ceiling that reminded me of her nose and eyes, and her feet were bruised too, her feet were purple.
I love writing.
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