Or rather, feeling invisible was a blessing.
One of my five year projects is to write 4,000 words a day. Right now, most of the blog posts are about 1,500, sometimes 1,800 if I get excited about what I’m writing.
Most days I feel like I’m in a clear, rectangle tub with very sharp corners, big enough for one person. I think I feel like I’m drowning most days. Like a pool of self doubt and endless criticism and the thing that stops me from getting out of the tub is feeling like on lookers are judging me for even being in it in the first place. It always feels like if you have to ask for help, you’ve already failed.
Which is terrible. Not a single goddamn thing has ever been made by one person alone.
When you’re invisible, you can do whatever you want.
Write whatever you want, for as long as you want and like no one is going to see it or judge you for it. You’re not representative of anything, but you’re also incredibly isolated. You don’t have any threads holding you to anything or anyone. You just wander in and out of rooms listlessly.
I am a melodramatic potato, but I feel like someone has to be.
If I were an object instead of a person…
I would be a smooth, black, palm-sized stone that was always cold to the touch, but when thrown into the fire could hold heat very well. Oddly specific little stone. Lol.
Apart of me feels like I have to let the blog revert back to this infantile state of being, in order to regroup. I’ve tried going through the motions, I’m not very good at that. It always makes me feel like I’m losing my mind. My body is doing one thing and my brain is screaming, “No, stupid. Do something good.” Right now, I’m listening to the Chill Hop mix and it feels like I’m playing the piano again. I feel like I’m taking deeper breaths. The more anxious I get, the more there is this tight, sharp pain in my chest and it makes it hard to breathe. Writing is loosening that pain.
Facebook and its significance to me.
Okay, I know some people are never going to have enough patience to read this whole or even click on it, so I’m just going to speak freely. The goal with these stream of consciousness rambles is that once the little hang-ups are buried and grievances are aired, it’s going to be a lot easier to focus on specific things.
So Facebook: to me, social media can have a kind of intimacy about it and it doesn’t get explored very often. A lot of people feel lonely even when they are the most popular users on something, I think that says so much about the spaces we build and how we’re expected to build them. I always like the idea of a big house and posts are like little rooms where the conversations can resonate. A big, round sound. But most people like to be angry. A short, flat sound in a room with nice acoustic, a wasted sound. It’s jarring, is it jarring, the way that you know people don’t know you well enough to know the sound you are making? Who is responsible for knowing or presenting accurately? Is it a group effort? Are there complete strangers that have more accessibility to your friends list than you do?
I’ve known people for years that have never seen the blog, or the YouTube channel, or even know that I make things. The disconnect between someone saying they love you and not knowing those things exist, like that blows my mind. It’s been years? How can you not know? Why would you lie? It is a lie, isn’t it? It is.
If I were an object instead of a person…
I would be a wrought iron arrow as long as a man’s leg and when I pierced something, I would be like a needle through cotton, smooth and precise.
How much of your story is your own?
How many times are you erased over and over again? Being remembered is a privilege we bestow unto each other. Sometimes, I don’t want to remember, because there is so much emotional pain that never gets sorted out.
Like on Tuesdays, when I get “Tuesday drunk” it’s just to slow it all down, to disconnect. Bet you so much, that a lot of the people there wouldn’t like me as much sober. Sober me feels like a heavy thing, but very much myself. Strong, fierce, with a confidence that was earned. I am so used to people seeing that me, the real me, the happy me and pushing me down. Small. Be smaller. Be quieter. Be less. So used to it. So used to it. It’s much easier to be drunk around those people. Then I won’t remember or care. If I care, then I’ll fight, whether for or against them.
I’ll lose either way.
I don’t care anymore. Obviously, I’m writing this mad thing.
Should I show you what it sounds like?
Would that change the entire story?
If I were an object instead of a person…
I would be a fluffy decorative pillow that has to be fluffed the right way in order to look acceptable for a perfect photo and then gets knocked under the couch and forgotten.
When I was incredibly suicidal I took all the photos of me out of the frames around the house. I was preparing to leave, you know and I thought the less physical evidence of me having been there, the easier it would have been to bury me.
Just saying. That’s why.
I know what I’ll do tomorrow for the 2,000 words, besides, you know, write something actually readable.
In my mind, I’ve come to a…
A cream colored, brick wall. There’s a way over the top, but it looks risky. Risky in the sense, I don’t know what’s at the top or on the other side. I wonder if there is anyone who could appreciate what I’m trying to do here. Nah, probably not. Just some attention whore, mad chick that hates everyone and is all to ready to leap at someone’s throat for their whiteness.
Which isn’t the case, there’s enough evidence of that.
There’s enough evidence of that.
Over or around, straight through or underground? Choices, choices, choices. The wall is a metaphor obviously for writer’s block. Just fyi. You look so lost. There are things I would like to say, but in a format people would actually read.
I know I can’t exist in isolation. I know that there is a compromise waiting in the future somewhere, but with who or what I don’t know. I can’t see that far ahead. That’s the trick to tricking suicidal ideation. The future. You have to hold that future higher than the ending. Change the name of the game, “Life” sounds too complicated, but does imagining it as “Choose Your Own Adventure” make it a little easier.
I wonder how you make a ladder out of nothing to get over a wall in your mind.
I wonder if I lied sometimes, would this life be easier? But I know that every lie eventually catches up to us because we betray ourselves. You can’t trust your instincts and live a lie. Your perception of the world is all askew because you’re looking for openings to exploit, not opportunities to explore the real thing. I could never deal with losing it all. I could never live with the guilt of doing that to someone.
Not that that is proof of integrity. That only comes with being a witness to moments where I have to demonstrate. Don’t get sidetracked by the pretty words on your screen.
This is helping.
I wouldn’t say I have ADD or ADHD, or even synesthesia. Someone says a word and like six things pop up. Social interactions are like flow charts and if you asked me what it was like in my mind, it’s like watching dozens of TVs at the same time. So focusing, solely focusing on one thing at a time is really hard. That’s my biggest personal challenge. Sometimes, it’s an advantage because there are so many options all the time. Nothing sounds impossible to me or to difficult to find a way to achieve. It feels like it takes a lot for me to get defeated.
So if there are lot of moments of “defeat” in multiple aspects of my life, I’m going to be a little sore.
But hey, that’s the life I wanted. Never boring, constantly changing.
It was easier to be invisible.
I guess now, I kind of am. I feel a little like it. And this isn’t a fishing statement, I really enjoy the stream of consciousness work I do, even if it seems strange to other people, but what’s the name of the blog again? Lol.
I think I’ll spend some of my free time working tonight taking notes about writing like this in a more compelling way. Maybe find some more creative ways to discuss things, get back to the goth side of living the strange life.
Until next time,
Don’t be hungry for life. Be ravenous.
Zakkarrii Edison Daniels