and every now and then you change the sponge, shuck the sheets

i've really had it with living, i think
and i know that my problems are ephemeral

but the spectrum of defeat is so broad, so yawning
how could we ever get away?

my fear in hypomania. my excessiorl of glee.
i think i might be moldy, my friend. i think you should throw me out.

the fact that i could be struck so strongly, moment to moment, as to not even be able to care?

i guess that is a sickness. i guess i'm really ill.

and people ask me what i want to do. as if the whole world were open to me and not ashun with morbidly ironic letters stuffed in boxes.

what i want to do. that's what you ask children and fresh baccalaureate graduates, who have a qualification and an excuse to Be Something all of a sudden, where they weren't, just before.

if i could make myself a child or a baccaluareate graduate, i would. the feelings those types of people feel are astoundingly idiosyncratic.

bear with me. i know it's hackneyed. i'd like to feel something again.

to feel something other than fear, and shame. my nervous systems can hardly only get nervous, anymore.

and of course, i'm the classical overthinker, who spends so much time worrying what other people think about them that they forget what it is they think and need.

i know the wisdom. i know the rote. i know that there's something i just can't shake, and i'm losing my grip, and i can't take it anymore, i'm losing it, i'm losing me, you're losing me, i'm losing you, i have to go, i have to go, away away away.

but i clean the house. i decry the mold. i flick the moths, i snake the drain.

and so i look...put-together. and so i appear...perfectly fine.

my crisis, it smolders, under the weights on my chest. my unfocused eyes and unrested face do fade before the muscle memory of a smile.

automatic. systematic. remove yourself. repeat the phrase.

i really don't think they make a therapy strong and weak enough for me.

i know what others don't. i'm prescient, a bit
and prescience is a forebearing gift

my gifts are indescribable, unlistable and myriad
my gifts are rigid, routine-d, undebased

my loneliness is only this: i'm wearing old day's clothes. last week is now and tomorrow is never. i do a job; i do, i do.

i do so much. i do so little. i don't hardly do anything, anymore.

smile on. crooked teeth. paraphernalia world.

found this just after. i suppose