freewrite at 5:30am

There was something about this hour, this hour on days like today when the trees were a dull gray on top of a silvery-bright blue that filtered in and muted everything - there was something spectactular in it. The way that the world could be waking up and quietening everything down all at once - tinny blue skies cradling rocking sheets of rain - that held a magical something or the other over things. You just had to sit still and let it and that gray light like moonshine could get a hold of you, could ease down into your bones and set you to rights. It could reset your worrisome self back to truth and easy answers and always eating before doing, before going and being. It could make you right forget about rough starts and morning sadness because the sky holds it all in her cheeks and is sparing you the trouble. Sharing the calm and sparing you the storm because today is a day for quiet acceptance of things as they are - a nature-gifted pause button for you today, not to be wasted on thoughts of tomorrow. Gray light that could be blue ghosting your eyes shut and saving you the sight of a wet/blue you. Shhh…just let it all be. Let yourself be. Be completely. 

My anxiety triggers, much like my life, are sporadic and untimely. 

Brilliant combination, that. 

Like, fuck, today was a long day. 

I just don’t like it when this feeling comes over me and I can’t shake it. I start worrying so much about every little thing on a normal fucking day. And today I woke up like this and it was just one really triggering thing after another. And I’m not sure why I didn’t just seize up into a panic attack at least twice today. Not that I’m not grateful, I’m just not sure. And I don’t trust myself. It’s like any minute it could all come crashing down. I haven’t had an attack in about three weeks and that’s the longest period of time I’ve gone without one since about November or December.

It’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop here. I’m walking on pins and needles inside of my own body and I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

I was really sad earlier because I got a fair bit of bad news today about my grandma on top of the already bad things happening with my grandma and then my sister fucking just was in a bad part of town and when it gets hot outside people act like didn’t nobody raise them and she was this close to being caught in a fucking crossfire and my mouth has been hurting all day today and that is bullshit because it didn’t hurt this much the day after i got those fucking teeth pulled and I was supposed to go to a cookout for my high school friends’ birthday but i didn’t and i feel like a total dick and to top it all off i woke up depressed. Like I knew today was going to be a bad day.

Sigh.

I’m not sad anymore because actually due to the secret life I’m living (which provided a much needed distraction). But idk. It’s just been a long, long day.  

I’m alive, just sort of taking a break from being on so much because I got three wisdom teeth pulled Monday morning and it flipping hurts. 

So I’m just reading the books I bought the other day. 

Currently working my way through “American Dream Machine” by Matthew Specktor. As well as a book of poetry by Jorge Luis Borges. God, I love that man’s writing. 

My new favorite poem is called “You” by Carol Ann Duffy. 

It’s beautiful, the entire collection (“Rapture”) is beautiful.

Some pieces resonate more than others, but that has a lot to do with which aspects of love you’ve rubbed shoulders with. 

Experience confers meaning, and all that. But even then, even without experiencing what some of these poems are clearly about, it is enough to read them, to empathize, and to take in their musicality and honesty. 

I just read the most lovely thing and I’m sorry that the loveliest things bring you to mind. 

Even the word “lovely” itself lends itself to your image that I’ve pieced together through scraps of digital meaning, false. False positives. 

But everything else is coming up blank. 

oooh goodness. when you read something so pertinent to your life it just sends shivers down your spine. 

it’s like you’re transparent to this person you’ve never even met. 

and that’s so fucking uncanny it just produces this involuntary physical reaction. 

ugh. 

Today I bought the following books (while I was hanging out with two of my best friends)

• The Brothers Karamazov - Dostoevsky (trns. Pevear/Volokhonsky)
• American Dream Machine - Matthew Specktor
• Rapture - Carol Ann Duffy
• Poems of the Night - Jorge Luis Borges

So, I got two books of poetry, two novels. 

Three males, one female. 

One Latin American, one American, one Scot, one Russian. 

One homosexual (also the Poet Laureate out of the group). 

Four really great reads (so I’m hoping). 

Hell, I’m already halfway through Rapture. Duffy is amazing. 

There’s nothing wrong with working for it. For meaning. And understanding. 

That’s life. 

Why would you expect and accept less from the art/media that you consume?

That’s my point here.