Expensive Night

-Do you think dead people trade experiences of dying?
I’ve been stuck at home for days now, writing or feeling miserable, a little less of the first. I feel sick. It’s psychosommatic. I was sitting on the couch recently stuck in some goo, I could feel my consciousness writhing, trying to get out, or maybe crawling further into the unknown. Like I’m there but I’m really not. And I go to sleep praying, questioning my existence. If I received any response at all, then maybe my belief in something would be furthered. I believed in god, or at least believed in my belief, but my misery never changed. I go through periods of elation, but even then there’s the knowledge of self and the self I fight against. Both when I was part of the church (ICC) and the years that have passed since, I’ve had these moments of elation and then the lows. I once thought I might suffer from some bipolar disorder, but I’ve never driven cross country three or four times back to back. Though I do have my obssessive compulsions. Sometimes I wonder how much of this I create and how much of it I cannot help. When my cards were read recently, one of the things I was told was that something or someone is blocking me-I look around-it’d be wonderful if it were that easy to find the stifling obstacle, but I think it’s deeper. It’s always there. Maybe I create the obstacles. Too much thinking wears me thin. There are times when I smoke and I feel my heartbeat increase, I start thinking that’s what tires me out, maybe I have heart problems. According to science I’m fine, too often I don’t feel it though. Psycho sommatoform. What would I think if I hadn’t read through all the books on pharmocology and mental illness. I went through a period where I feared I was hypoglycemic, had a check up and found it was all in my mind. Though I do sometimes feel faint and I passed out once, in front of the class, really, in the back of it, but in class nonetheless.
I slept all day today. As I did, I wondered how much was the sommatoform and how much it was not wanting to face the day. I finally woke up.
There was an incident involving a car, not mine, I wasn’t driving, but there was damage and the insufferable feeling that what my hand touches quickly fades. I was responsible. I’ve been feeling this way for awhile, staring at the ceiling and poking holes into my frailty, into the concatenation of manifestations that is me. I tend to be quiet, I tend to be calm, but I find myself lately easily frustrated and flustered. Fear gripping me. Fear of life and my directionlessness, the opposite may not be so bad. Though it is a shame to die and leave nothing behind more than money. I haven’t even been thinking about films lately, just been suffering through a dark passage. I’m almost wont of desires except for this sense of sexuality, which is really more a frustrated energy.
I stare at the ceiling and question my belief in my passion, more than that, my ability. Is there anything else to do, but to deconstruct my idenity and feel like closing my eyes for longer than a night and day would be better than my present state.
A movie flickers after the incident with the car. I called my dad and feel emotional. He growls at me from simple questions and all I’m asking for is help, not money. I start thinking about my life, the little help or support I’ve received and maybe it’s me, maybe it’s always been me. The thought that anyone would like to meet me always leaves me wondering why? I was once told I was amazing-I wrote a story about it-I’ve never reconciled it with myself. Someone fell for my heart or so she said and then disappeared, I guess it wasn’t much falling and very little about my heart. It’s two days to Valentine’s. I’ve never been big on holidays, not even personal. I’m hard pressed to remember a good birthday, or a moment of happiness, nothing stands out. But then again, at the moment nothing really stands out. And so I watch the movie. Bertolucci. The dreamers. All I have to say, is it could have been a much better movie. I’ll stop there, there’s more, but what’s the point? No one’s listening.
I had a thought today. Wouldn’t it be cool if I could make a living from writing? But I lack the energy to pursue anything at the moment. I think that’s been my idealism and my undoing. I thought I would find my path, that it would come to me, that I was talented enough, but it hasn’t come to pass. I’m fatigued and life is for the living.
People are more real when no one else is listening. Maybe that’s what allows me to be compulsively honest, I’m aware that no one is really listening to me. Perhaps it’s for the best, I doubt I have anything important to say. So I close my eyes and wait for something to happen…