Somebody Stop The Clock

Things have been ricocheting lately. It is a hair bundle of 'could be worse' and 'this is the worst I can take.' Amidst this, every day I carry this delusional hope in my head that my life will change tomorrow, and a part of my brain knows it is not going to and stops me from sleeping. And, I juggle. Like a failed clown. Started this year with a constipation so bad I needed someone to excavate it and ending it with a belly so empty, so acidic, my hunger is gutted. With days and nights filled with snot and tears and piercing headaches and ending it with absolute nonchalance tripping over clumsy reality every now and then with empty, itchy eyes. People keep saying things will change; change is the only constant. Then why is it that constancy is the only thing that doesn't change? I have been a stagnant pond. No one visits, no one loves, and no one even bothers to fill me with sand to put an end to it. Reminds me of a woman who lay on a hospital bed for almost half a century in a vegetative state because no one was there around her to pull the plug for her. I see such things, and I contemplate. I try to predict regret. Or, is the prediction itself the first act of it? I review my daydreams and try to measure my tics. I shovel within me, deeper and deeper. And yet, I cannot seem to go back. To pinpoint the past. It all seems burdensome when added up, but when I break them into small, mullable pieces, it doesn't give me that divine richness of spice of life. I chain myself to bed with my blanket and freeze my legs with my taxing thought process. I think of how different I am. How disgustingly I eat dumplings. How common I am. How obscenely mediocre I am. How shamefully hungry I am. How suppressingly faster I am. How full of hate I am. How much love I carry in the attic of this thunderous household of my mind. How upsettingly prepared I am. How bafflingly out of touch I am. How anciently adult I am. How crudely childish I am. I wish to stop all of this. This prolonging train of thought is the worst form of self-flagellation in the fourth circle of hell. It keeps running. On time. No stops missed. And it will keep running. In the same town. Stuck in the same track. Again and again. Again. Until I am completely numb. And incapable of processing a new piece of the world. 

I cannot even think of words to write anymore. Wow, I am adding this part as I edit what I have written in this entry. And... Have I lost it? My ability to write? Is this my final act of bedrotting? I am done... for life? Is this the end of me? The blank pages have always stared back, drafting mocking testaments to the void in my mind. It's not just writer's block, but this? This is a complete and utter shutdown. The words, once my trusted companions, now sound like trapped echoes in the labyrinth of my miragey mind. Even the act of trying feels like a monumental task, each attempt at stringing together a coherent sentence resulting in a humiliating tangle of disconnected literacy. It's as if the very language I've relied on has abandoned me, leaving me under the heavy rocks of silence. I have watched the cursor blink, persistently reminding me of my failure many times. But this is an insult to injury; I catch myself adding this very passage, a desperate attempt to acknowledge the very thing I'm failing at while attempting it for the last time? Am I unraveling? Has the well of my creativity finally run dry? Is this it, then? Only a house of snakes and lowly anger. The slow, silent surrender to the pull of inertia, the final descent into a life lived on the periphery? I'm frozen, caught in this moment, a prisoner of my own mind. Time feels heavy, each tick of the clock a crushing blow. If this is the end, someone, please... Please, somebody stop the clock. Uh, irony?

- Oizys.