Opening prose

It feels very lonely, life feels lonely, it feels a feeling I can’t describe. Almost that its not real. Its good, in lots of simple ways: the food, the surrounds, the comfort of my bed, the ability to rest and paint and draw. But otherwise, it feels very numb, and sad. And at the seat of it, I feel very much like I’m floating listlessly. I’m waiting for something – for someone – some grand thing. Something to come through, or come to me, to show me what comes next. Or to explain to me how things have gotten to be this way. I’ve isolated myself from the whole world, it seems, and I only want to continue so, it seems too. Because I’m not ready to face them. And I don’t want to be facing the wrong people again. And get into situations that hurt me and others. Its too painful. It’s felt a very long time I’ve been going through this, not sure who I can trust. Least myself. But at the same time the only thing I’ve got that’s kept me going is some blind belief in myself. Some finger I’ve got pulling on a place I can’t tangibly feel, I can’t see it, I don’t know really much at all about it yet, but for the strong intuitive sense I get that any other path where I’m not tugging on it, is just wrong. But I’m also wondering a lot of the time if I’m crazy, or just downright stupid. If my feelings of confusion, of flailing about life as it feels I do, all comes down to some insufficiency in me, rather than it being the doorway to some profound new reality.

But I can’t deny the force that sends me through the turmoil, that forces me to blow up these structures in my life, despite how agonizing the followthrough is. It feels like I simply have to do these things, in order to be me, even if I’m still rocking myself in fetal position once the dust clears. As it seems to be how I find myself now. And how I have been for: however long I can remember. No feet on the ground. But how do I get there? I yearn for a place, a feeling, and it seems sure to me I’m putting every bit of might I have to get to that place: my heart and my body and my soul. But still I don’t find it. And still, I feel so deeply alone. And I wonder if I’ll ever not feel alone. And I wonder if I still want to be alive. How much longer I can go on wondering what this is all for. Berating myself for my existence. Stumbling and searching. I wonder if this reality is some cruel trick, and there’s some outer entity watching me in amusement. If I’m just a figure within their simulation, doing exactly the stupid shit they expect me to do to survive. Chasing a futile path. Dreaming of a reality that feels good. That feels calm, and safe, and full of love. But really: my desire is as obsolete as any addict’s. And the thing my body is dangling in front of me, what my intuition is screaming for, is a mere artificial feeling, that once arrived at: only ever beckons me for more.

I hate my mother. How do I stop hating her? Because hating her feels like hating me. And I love to hate her – do you see where I’m going with this?