Just, that acute sensation of all things painfully, sharply, even the exciting bits. Life as gradations of pain and itch. Centrum of pain.
It's like this most days--waking up, feeling empty, but knowing (not having to convince) that I am doing something that I cannot live without. Something irreversible. Yes, I know that. But I still wake up in the lowlit grey. Gravity thumps my feet every time.
There's this other weird feeling--I've basically been generating about 3-4 poems every 2 weeks (so, like 1-2 poems a week, usually 2), which is a really productive rate, considering my professors consider these poems to be keepers (I think. I'm pretty sure.) I even consider them pretty solid. As in, they aren't paper igloos.
This is a huge feat for me--I only wrote, no eked maybe 3 good poems during my 2 years out of school. And in my last quarter at UCLA, I think I only wrote 2 great poems.
Right now, I have at least 10. Both of my poetry prof. and workshop instructor tell me to keep doing what I'm doing. There's so much encouragement--and kind words--and I allow myself to believe just a little bit of it. Enough for me to not burn words.
But last week and this week, I didn't really have to generate completely new poems, which meant I got a little bit more sleep (plus, E was here), but today I feel so listless--like I can't write a poem anymore--like I lost that momentum and now everything has fallen to shit.
Yes, more sorts of empty. Even my poem last week for class was weak in my opinion. I struggled with the assignment, and wrote it out of exhaustion while E laid next to be in bed, staying up with me until 4 am so that I wouldn't have to suffer alone.
Even though there is this great person, not too far away, but yes, admittedly far, things feel unbearable. It's raining, has been raining, and I love rain, but things are so unbearable. I don't even want to talk about this with him because I really don't think there's anything he can do that he isn't already doing. I hate this helplessness. It's not depression. That was 2 weeks ago.
This--this has everything to do with my body, the leap between, and the terrible looking down from the bridge. Uncertainty. But I know that to have certainty is ruinous. So there is no solution. No peak or trough then where am I?
Surely, I stop existing. I'm scared. I don't want to lapse back to my old faults. To hurt him again. To have him unintentionally hurt me.
We both already are wounded dry by this situation. We are dulled and heightened and alone. I asked, but didn't ask, and was scared at his reply.
Is it the right thing--I just want it to stay right. To keep--I do not know how to make it.
I'm tired--I don't feel safe, my last laughter seemed so long ago, but I know it must have been yesterday.
Come fetch me. Bring back the deflated driftwood balloon.
