So much has happened, not happened, and happened, and time has unfolded indifferently, poker faced.
Mostly, I'm so bone-tired that I cannot even do my normal routine at home, let alone come to the internet. It's like what you said, anyway--everything that has happened could be contracted into a minute or two, no matter how big the emotional impact radius. It doesn't matter. We're forced to move on.
My life here is so hectic that I cannot afford to tie my shoe.
Tight summation: tried to make the whole 2 jobs, internship, full-time school, plus going to all the readings thing work. It didn't, I ran on 7 total hours sleep during the weekdays, and I couldn't calm down or truly focus.
Finally got the balls to quit Jane for good, after failing the first time.
I can breathe now.
Lots has happened, really. Readings (famous poets, program-mates, etc.)--being told nice things by 2nd year students in the program--flattering things--I know this is cliche for me, but I feel more comfortable about the small number of second years than most and of the first years. Why does this always happen to me? It's a recipe for loss, abandonment. Desertion.
Sculpture is pretty crazy; for our cardboard project, we had to choose a logo we saw at Times Square and transmute it into a building. One of the dimensions has to be my height.
I'll do a post next week of before, during, and final product, but I chose the HSBC logo. And my sculpture is pretty minimalist compared to everyone else in my class. I feel like a fraud in that class, all the time. And I always hate everything I assemble--although this project has my hopes at a normal level. I don't have the nauseating desire to destroy it.
I've really gotten into my rhythm. Quitting Jane gives me a few more sleep hours--mostly, the vital weekends for myself to do what I will. This was much more important than I anticipated.
There's more that I'm not talking about. A huge meteor that struck me, and sucked my emotional energy. Despite how mournful and difficult and how plainly sad it was, it balanced me out; it put me on 50-50, and I was frankly relieved.
I had never seen him like that--it surprised me, and cruelly, I think I was glad--it was a relief to know that I wasn't alone in how I've been feeling for the ___ amount of time. To know I didn't have to carry it on my own. I could breathe now. I'm less scared.
A relief so long in coming that I think I drowned with the intensity of it. I dared to be foolish and happy again.
To have my heart do that despicable thing; to dare to--
Why do I feel wretched now? Things have evened out again--in a better plane, so I should be content. Don't I have what I want?
Why now, when I've managed to get a semblance of sanity and balance. It's the illustrious, unwanted return of the illegitimate melancholy. Where I don't want to be around people; where I am resentful of the space occupied around me by activity, constant TTD lists, people.
I just want the quiet and isolation of space to myself, with nothing else. Unbearable, inconsolable. Why does it always have to circle back here?
It's a slow comfort that I'm constantly bombarded with words, phrases, ideas for a poem, the next poem--so many poems stewing, on the shelf, on hold. Constantly churning. It's exhausting but rewarding. It's what I'm here for.
I try not to think about the worth. Somewhere along the way, I shed sentimentality; became the true heart of the machine. I have no beautiful words; I will not break your heart or make you cry.
It's a lie, of course. Machines make me cry all the time, so why not this, with _____?
Everything from my fingers is jibberish. I'm a fraudulent masking jibberish.
I don't feel beautiful, and I don't loathe myself--instead, I've lost connection with myself.
After all the tumult, it still hurts--I still hurt. The years hurt. The nightmares have stopped, but my day--my days.
I'm still fearful--fearful it's still not real; that it has faded, and is fading. But I feel it, so intensely, all the time. I stand alone again.
This is terribly sorrowing. The dead weight, which earned its place, continues to be resented, a tumor I carry because the womb is meant for bearing.
