March 19, 2013

In Motion

I'm starting to feel as though none of my life is real. It can't be. It's way too surreal. And that doesn't necessarily mean a good thing. In fact, that's exactly what it doesn't mean.
I hate admitting that in any exposing matter because I feel like a child. I am a child.

I have everything I need to be happy. But my core capability just doesn't live up to par.
Fantastic family.
Polished health.
Commendable morality. (For the most part)

------ Check.

 I reside in one of most beautiful cities of South Florida. I spend my days eroding in the luscious brown sand, letting the multicolored teal water grasp my soul.

Except, what is soul? What is it to have a soul? I'm starting to question whether I even possess one. This is a genuine doubt, not some cute cynic way of differing whether I'm an asshole or not. That's a given.

All jokes aside though, what is this redundant fuckery. I'm going to end up alone if I continue to do this to myself. This irregularity in satisfaction will doom me. This longing to feel pain should be sickening. Except, it isn't. I'm addicted to it. I like to feel alone. So alone that I start to hear the walls in an enclosed room whispering. So alone that while I lay in bed before I endure the sleepless night, the pictures surrounding me independently press play, and I live the memory they captured all over again.

I can repeatedly say the word as rehearsed,


I feel nothing. Not a shed of brightness, no flamboyant color stream, no gleaming painted picture of the sunrise -- Nothing. Just this endless neutral sensation that is utterly suffocating. Yet, when I want to feel repression, agony, pain... it resonates so effortlessly. In an instant, I can embark on my very own Cirque du Soleil.

I begin by rupturing everything my life consists of into parts and scrutinizing all details. Whatever I don't understand or understand too much of I go over -- and over and over again -- until it becomes an analogy of Ring Around the Rosy all by my lonesome.

I then become dizzy. So dizzy it's nauseating. In which I end up resenting myself for even attempting to fathom the apprehensions of life. My life.

Expectedly thereafter, I inherently start to yearn for attention. Someone to take away this self-inflicting distress. My desire for an aid in company becomes so overwhelming that I reach out to people I hate. That artificial side of me begins to take hold, to where I end up in an inquisition of ethics:

Am I a phony?
Am I inauthentic?
Am I real?

My whole life is just a fabrication of infinite inquiries of who I am and what I want. Which as I have just made ever so clear, is in no reliable position to answer as such.

Last motion:

Will I ever be? 

Signed, -S