discontent

on emotional purgatory and existing in the doldrums

I am not happy, but not unhappy. I am the slow blink before the sigh when you ask someone, “how are you?” I don’t know how to answer, and sometimes I don’t want to answer. It’s ingrained in us to make small talk, and we know it’s coming just as surely as we know we’ll be asking it ourselves; I am drowning in social niceties as I try to find the balance an acceptable response provides. Why do we keep asking if it’s not true invitation to get deep?

I am just okay, but I am not okay. I am the consolidation of horrible things into a neatly packaged, palatable update. Sometimes I am too tired to even think about what life has been like lately, and so most of my friends aren’t aware of how heavy my hopelessness is. Maybe I don’t actually want to be perceived, after all. Am I strong, or am I just too stubborn?

I am busy, but unproductive. Procrastination has gotten me nowhere — literally. I am just a little bit more, a little bit longer, in every situation that I find myself late to. I am the lack of motivation, and still I push through, because what else can I do? What else is there to do?

I am the “It’s Complicated” status on Facebook, if I still used it. Always complicated, and making things more complicated for myself than I probably need to. It’s because I am always overthinking. I am playing multidimensional chess because I have to, not because I want to. I’m not even good at it. It’s conditioned, like my hair. I never fail to slather that shit on because I only feel comfortable when thinking about discomfort. It’s the thought of my hair feeling gross that urges me to keep it clean. Is that how it’s supposed to work?

I am not in a relationship with my ex, but I might as well be. He reaps all of the benefits, and I only sow my sorrows when I am alone in my bed down the hall. I am far too lonely and entangled to even think about dating, because the truth is that I don’t want to date. The only reason I would is if he and I decide to try to make things work. The last time that happened, he relapsed right after. What’s the point?

There is no point. I might feel better tomorrow, but today, I am just… discontent.

a poem

disarray

my mind focuses 
     at the most inopportune times 
on everything, 
     except for what it should be on.

i feel my thoughts swirl 
     & i try to pluck one 
from thin air,
     just out of my reach. 

it slips through my fingers.
     & now not a single think remains,
just moments ago, 
     it was full. 

my mind flounders between silence 
     & storm, 
full of everything 
     & nothing.