Sad

I am feeling sad now, and I don't know why. I had a good day. I am okay, honestly I am. But it is one of those times when the sadness tastes metallic in my mouth and I feel like I'm floating in the worst possible way.

It's a time when I look on the world and I am so worried that other people are not happy. I am so worried that there is something I should be doing for them that I am not. I am so, so worried that someone else has the metal-taste and the floating and that they need someone to talk to, someone to make them feel better.

I'm okay, it's just that the world overwhelms me sometimes.

I'm scared. I don't know what I'm scared of and I don't know why I'm scared and I shouldn't be stressed at all.

But I'm still okay.

I saw a picture today that said something about "Feeling is from the brain. Leave the heart alone - it just pumps blood." And that is true. But where do you feel it? Your heart. Your chest. You don't get headaches when you're sad, or at least, not as much. You feel your chest.

Read that as you may. I hope your mouth tastes sweet and that you feel firmly rooted to the ground.

On Writing, or lack thereof

There is a certain silent sadness to the lack of writing.

Now, don't get me wrong. There was a lot of writing in my life this year. Essays, blog posts, journal entries - a lot of nonfiction.

But there is a comfort to fiction that cannot be achieved with such safe material.

Fiction is dangerous. It feels terrifying because creating is terrifying. It is a jump into the unknown, where there may be a safety net or a concrete sidewalk in the thick darkness. If it doesn't work, it hurts. But that analogy is a poor one, since writing fiction will certainly not kill you.

Fiction requires a certain freedom to the mind, a lack of preoccupation. My brain, when fuzzy with obligation, does not want to write fiction. In that case, my brain just wants to sleep. Or look at adorable cat gifs. Or just stare at the ceiling for a while.

Suddenly, I'm out of school and I can write again. This year, I began to doubt whether or not I was actually a writer. But I suppose, in a way, that being a writer is not a question of writing every single day on schedule. Being a writer is a matter of coming back to it. Of needing to come back to it. Of having the ideas curl into smoky rings of vapor until they condense into liquid and can no longer be contained. That is writing. It is a difficult love, but a fruitful one.

This July I venture into Camp NaNoWriMo, land of 1613 words each day and insanity. I'm excited and terrified. And hopefully, in August, I'll have a novel to edit.

The silent sadness is over, if only temporarily.

Living Inside My Head

There is, of course, an extremely subjective angle to my view of me.

Now that we are past that painfully obvious opening sentence, let's elaborate.

I think everyone has a love-hate relationship with themselves, which is the way things should be. You should love yourself at least a little, but you shouldn't be thoroughly egocentric. You should be able to see flaws in yourself.

In my experience, most people do this quite well. In fact, most people go as far as to see most of themselves as flaws with small seams.

I am no exception.

People say I'm smart, and yes, I know I am relatively intelligent. People say I'm flexible, which I know I am to an extent. People say I'm talented, which I know I am.

I know I am, but I don't think it's as much as other people.

Living inside my head is weird. I always want to stuff it with information. I always think there are things I should be doing better.

Periodically, people inform me of my intelligence because I'm okay at remembering things. Today I was helping people study for history finals, producing a date off the top of my head. "How do you remember that?" they asked, followed by, "You're so smart, why are you so smart?"

Also today, after I comforted someone who was stressing out, a friend of mine said, "Oh, she's not always an asshole."

Inside my head is a weird mix of the two views - contented with myself, yet thoroughly irritated at the same time and surprised when I get things right.

It's weird.

I don't know.

I'll go back to living inside my head.

At night, after the party

As the color fades around my eyes, I stare ahead, hearing the angels' voices sing
on the breeze, on the breeze.

As the water chills in the glass, I pour it down my throat, feeling ice
on my lips, on my lips.

Recalling the fading light and a sea's wind and a fleeting wildness
in my blood, in my blood.

As the music pounded in my ears, in my feet,
in my blood, in my blood.

And the sun escaped below the horizon, red and glistening with pearls
of sweat, pale sweat.

And songs tore from within me, within me
and my feet danced under me, under me
and a turtle's image appeared on my arm

And it was nothing if not everything

Because without the wild
what is there to the world?