Haphazard, Chaotic Attic

Isn't it easy, delving into your own mind when the world peels off the better of you? Isn't it done by magic, in a matter of only seconds, when everything you see becomes too sharp, too real, for your own liking? Isn't it easy to head blindly into imagination, when reality hurts, when mortality knocks on your door, when you're reminded how frail you are?


LIVE LIFE, you can read on my knuckles, Absolution, you can read on my wrist. Illusion and dream is written in my neck, turtles and lotus flowers are drawn on my arms. All of this art I've inked onto my skin, all of it on such different occasions for such different reasons, and still their message seems so incredibly similar in retrospect, seems to ring so incredibly clear. It all seems to come down to the same thing - reality, mortality, and making use of the moment. So why is it so hard to stay on the outside, to not float off into a daily dreamland, drenching ourselves in daydreams when we aren't allowed to sleep and scaring ourselves awake with nightmares when we're supposed to?


I wonder if everyone's dreamers, if everyone dreads to be entirely present, entirely absorbed by what is happening around them this very second. I want to be more like those people who forget everything but what needs to be done this here and this now, want to be more like those people who can care so much that they can forget entirely about themselves. I want to be in the moment, want to be here, want to be now. I want to be less forgetful, less abstract, less enclosed in a prison made of moving patterns turning me sea-sick, less chased by constant inner arguments, less troubled, less worried, less afraid. More than anything else I want to be less afraid. I'm so tired of waking up in the middle of the night scared half to death by my own nocturnal and haphazard visions, so tired of twitchingly tricking myself into sleep, so tired of counting minutes and seconds until the next time I'm required to present myself somewhere, so tired of not being able to choose what to think.


Is it supposed to be this chaotic? Is it supposed to be this dizzy? Am I supposed to shift this swiftly between emotional extremes? Am I supposed to spend this much time inside the messy attic I call mind? Am I supposed to latch on so easily to what lives and breathes?


"What you live and breathe is why you're dying"
~ Poets of the Fall


I'll leave you with those words for now...
POET IN THE CHAOTIC JAR