I find myself wandering. I didn't want to be here. Flipping, flapping, flopping, I would be better off in the oceans: living free and naked, enjoying the view of the corals. I, the existentialist, feel with every bit of the body, the mind and the soul. The joys and the pleasures, are all worthy, though. Or, are they...? Sometimes I wonder. How much easier would it be to not feel at all? Tinkering slippery slopes I travel my way on and on. Not even knowing if it's true. But the feelings are real... I can't put them down to sleep. But they sometimes start slipping away from me. Through my pores they drain. They trek down my skin, inwards to the shallow waves beneath my feet. The ¾ of me that are something else, other than existentialist, are numbed out.
The remaining quarter starts to take over, a mission that's nearly accomplished every time I blink. My eyes quaver, my voice falters, what if... Nothing. But... Nothing. I did not want to be here. I did not ask to come. Sometimes I wish I was just a blotch of blood and tissue going down the drain and eventually back to earth. Yet, here I am. Sat down spitting through my fingers all the bloody things I am "not allowed" to say, to feel.
If it wasn’t enough to have the feelings, I have to deal with what other people think about me feeling something. They seem to police and have me under strict surveillance. Why do they care to count how many tears I have shed a day? They would only criticise, and nothing else. They don’t want to hear why it is that I’m bleeding. If anything, they do this to please their morbid curiosity. They’re the vultures of madness, who feed from my sadness and pain.
People worry about my sadness, my anger. I haven't broken any windows; I haven't cut my veins, YET. They seem to prefer me not to speak. It worries them to hear that I had a hard day (not that I had it, but to HEAR it). Sometimes, the only help I need is for them to be there, and listen; on and on through my dreams, the nightmares, and the blisses. Then I wake up and move on.
The problem is I've been so alone. I have all these feelings bubbling up, and by the time I manage to reach out, the feels have all just gone. But I have to feel them. But I have to let them get afloat. But if I wait until I reach out, I would then be talking about the past. By then it is something that’s not there anymore and feels irrelevant and fake. It's just another ghost. If I try to express through the thing when it's bubbling, I babble. People turn around and run scared, the hell away from me. They cannot deal with their feelings. They’ve trained themselves to bottle them up. Of course, no wonder they can’t deal with mine. I am a wild beast. I don't know what I'm doing here, but still, I stay. I persevere day after day, until finally I can run away.
Meanwhile, the feelings are kept. In my chest, no longer fresh, the rotten mixture poisons this thing everyone insists in calling “life”. The trees understand. I can feed them with my sap, although it’s better when it’s fresh. Even trees get injured with the fermented stress.
I had a scream that was trapped. It got solid. I felt something that was preventing me from breathing. The blockage, as it turned out, needed to come through my mouth. It had been there for a long time, as long as I can remember. It had been hiding and solidifying. One day I nearly choked. I thought it was on my lies, but no. It got out. It was loud and terrifying. It had built up with the years, the years that were spent day in and day out in silent submission. I had swallowed my disappointment, my fear, my sadness, my anger, whenever I was upset but said and did nothing.
The wail went on for minutes that turned into hours, and days. It went eastwards and caught my ear again as it was making its way back through the West. I then took it and launched it aiming at the sky. The projectile blasted an asteroid passing by. No wonder why I had the touch of death: everything that came into contact with me would rot and disintegrate. That had been my magic until that day.