He Cut The Word To Pieces

And I tell myself, I’ve got Chapter seven to read, but I need to take this time. And I tell myself I’ve got an agenda to fabricate, but I’ve got to take this time. And I tell myself to put on a sweatshirt cause its cold in here, but I don’t get up and I miss the dull hum of some tv show that usually helps me whittle away hours while I read and write and usually have more left over that I never get to and keep saying, I’ll get to tomorrow and know I won’t and fear I won’t and what the consequence of “not wanting to” will do to me. And I am smiling and sticking out my tongue cause they say I am put together and all over it and great and great and great and… I feel like I’m gathering pieces and getting by and I can’t wait to pick apples and eat caramel and forget that I’ve got three papers to write, an agenda, a meeting, five hour classes, suits and knee highs to wear.

But first I’ll get a sweater.

And there is silence, the dull hum of the fan whose top speed seems like a breathing machine and not a wind tunnel is making my mind sleepy, doughy, soft and I’ve got half a mind to cover my hair in lotion, and run away to the moon, the rubber cement glue, allergy pills and birth control mingling in my stomach, and bacteria covering my peanut butter, apple and raisin sandwich. As if I was already pregnant and ducking my way out of this terribly scheduled life called Grad School, where I’m expected to make a superb product without stepping on anyone’s toes. Without offending or leaving behind. They want me to do the work, to lead the group, but not be a leader if it hurts someone’s feelings. If one person is sad…
Can you swear? It seems childish to go on the rampage in my mind. All at once I am holding the reigns and trying to push the horses forward, but someone else holds them back, or grabs a hold and says not yet, not yet and that is privileged or I just don’t know.

How does one go about making chocolate cake and never eating it?
How do you proceed and exceed but never move?
What if challenge is welcomed, but some won’t allow it?

I know one thing and it’s that coffee and juice stain white clothing, even off white for that matter.

I know one thing and its that I feel better on the days I go to the gym first, have that cup of Pumpkin spice coffee and am successful with the newspaper cryptoquip.

I am worried that I am too anxious, that I am worrying about too many things. I am worried that I am worrying too much. And I want to talk to someone, to go to the shrink and tell them that I’ve got enough fears and agendas to keep the world at the bottom of the sea, but it’d be another appointment, and I’d be another person and even if I imagine my sister dead in the shower, I can’t make time to be diagnosed and categorized. No room for medications, or stopping the itchiness of worrying. I tell myself its winter weather drying out my skin, but even with intense rescue applied, my skin crawls.

I am afraid. Ofeverything? Of nothing? No th ing. And I want to draw, for the first time in months, and I’m looking for encouragement and support, but I can’t feel it. I need to hear, that’s good, that’s good. But I can’t. And I don’t want to show anyone because they’ll think:

What has she become…?

Nothing.

Was it ever easy? No. But it was different.

And what have I become?

No th ing.