.Turbulence.

Some say the water's best when it's lukewarm. You can swim and it isn't so uncomfortable as when it's cold and stiffening. I suppose my situation would be considered that: lukewarm. It's mildly comfortable, but something I'd rather not swim in for too terribly long. My heart beats with a few skips, drenched with paranoia and cut gently with panicked netting. This raging hydra that sees the world around it and swivels and thrashes about to grasp a piece with its jaws.

There's a struggle. A deep one. A well-and-deeply-seated one. Pooled underneath the skin and caked underneath the nails and extravagantly painful. Almost to a numbing extent. There's no time for tears, no time for looking back, no time for calculating. You just keep moving and ducking and dodging the flagrant debris, and be thankful the scrapes aren't amputations and fatal wounds.

I'm surviving. It's all I know to do. It's all I can do. It's very painful to experience, but so is life. You simply navigate and hope you don't lose your head in the sea of blades. Even with a hydra, one cannot bear cost to lose them all at once. Regeneration does have its limits and prices.

I'm still swimming. Still moving. Still dodging. Still breathing. Still making it. That's all I can do now. Though hope can be a fool's game, it can also be a loser's last grain of sanity. Hanging by a thin thread. Until they pull themselves to the top and proclaim success. And never give up and pull still.

I at least have hope; whatever threads remain. I still grasp them. I won't fall just yet. Even though the pain is great and suffering is surely at hand. Just keep pushing, a little further,

It's all you can do.

It's all you have left.

synapse.misfirings

I haven't written anything in ages. I feel as though I am slipping into the tide of comfortable ignorance. That disturbs me, to a great extent. I compose from pieces of oblivion and the very edge of consciousness. Shortages of matters of consequence, and drippings of life and lack thereof fluttering as would a shutter. Glimpses of the past, present, and future as they are now and were and never will be.

There was this funny question I used to ask myself: "Who are you and what have you done?"

Once upon a time I could not answer that. Now I can answer it partially...parts of me giggle with a remembrance of the former self--the naivete, ambivalence, and whimsical sprite that she once was, once upon a time. Reduced to a husk, you are now, my child, a sully husk! Remnants of once thrived stick to the core in tattered chunks, festering into a sort of emotion-driven parasite, reminding the heart of its follies.

Who am I? I sordid creature, tethered to her humanity and antisocial tendencies, thriving within her mind--a sort of chamber to find solace from the exterior whenever she can. Extending her arms to create and physically manifest a sliver of her being into reality.

What have I done? Nothing of substance, as of late. Push harder...move faster....keep running...and that too shall change.

Thoughts are running on empty...but that is what happens when insomnia strikes and leaves you without a hint of comfort.