Existentialism

1-8-16

I want to crawl out of my skin. I want to leave this shaky, leaf tremble body. 

It’s so reactive, so sensitive, so sensory overload. 

So feel-nothing-at-all-then-everything-at-once. 

So come-back-to-myself-mid-conversation-without-knowing-where-I-went. 

My mind’s not absent, so much as it’s the kid who shows up late every day. 

It’s autopilot defense mechanism, 

when nothing feels real so everything may as well be. 
I stay out late on trains of thought so when I spout weird s**t, at least there’s a reason. 

When I think about living too long, 

I wonder if anyone sees me blink extra hard as if I’m only just seeing them, as if I’m trying to remember what I just said
(because I am.)
I like to sleep because it waters down the conscious. 

Dreams are pastel chalk drawings of HD reality that no one forces to make sense.
I like fuzzy just-woke-up feelings when nothing exists. 
Good feelings have rolled about like marbles dropped on the ground,
I keep tripping on them in the oddest places.
Memories have been tucked anywhere they’ll fit, the bad ones shoved into a drawer in the back.
Weird fidgets playing on shuffle repeat-
knee jerk, lip bite, nose wrinkle, brow furrow, lip twitch-
music I can’t turn off.
Habits with origins I don’t know,
because all I know is I can’t sit still ever.
I don’t want to die.
I just feel like this body is a storage unit built too small.
It overflows,
but I spend so much time reorganizing,
I don’t have energy to build a new one.