Every nerve in my body is buzzing like a plucked string, jangling and dancing and humming like a live wire. The whole world seems to be eggshell thin, ready to break and burst into anger at any moment. Frustration compounds my anxiety, anxiety compounds my frustration, and the whole world seems bent on making my life just THAT much more twitch based.
My head hurts so badly I had to wear sun glasses in my last class tonight. The hum of the florecent bulbs made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I could focus, and yet I couldn't, trapped in that medium where everything is tunneled, and sound is a blur other than the one high pitched ticking sound of someone moving in their chair back and forth. Air feels strangely dense moving over my skin, especially on my arms, which feel like they are a half inch above where they actually are, especially the wrists.
I come home, get food warmed, only to have it taken when I havent touched it in 15 min because I am working franticly to finish a story I should have had in by five, and simultaniously being bothered by someone on aim. A writer flakes, and now I am stuck between letting the weekly fall through, or writing it myself, tomorrow or tonight. I need sleep, but I know I will not sleep well, because of how tightly wound I am. I should eat, yet the whole food thing now seems unapitizing because it only serves to get me yelled at. I will wait, and go put it up later, after things have calmed.
Stress from nothing, nothing to stress over. Yet here I am, feeling like I am running out of time, or something, already.
Tired. Anxious. Restless. Confused. Sad.
The air is so cool as to be almost cold in my room, with a fan going in the window. The cold feels good, reasuring, something to remind me that I have skin. Skin to wrap myself up in, skin to keep myself inside me. And as escapest as that sounds, what I want is to curl up inside myself and be warm, and safe, and know nothing but sweet sleep until I wake on my own.
Sunlight, shadow, warmth, blanket smell.
Tomorrow, I have a shrink appointment, hopefully to see how well I am doing. After today, I am not sure just how well I am doing. Yet more to be nervous about, yet more to wonder about. So many things to wonder about. Wonderland, how do you get to Wonderland... over the hill or underland, or just behind the tree? Strangely disjointed things like that keep wandering through my head, memories and things half forgotten, and yet I dont remember half of them three seconds later, unless I'm writing. Twitch of the finger on the key, thought recorded, twitch, record, twitch, record, twitch...
Neurons alive, moving inside me, drifting, pulsing em spikes which dance along their conductive coatings. Floods of neurotransmitters, salts, lithium, and myriads of other things drift along the currents of these trellised pathways. That is what consciousness is, that EM that flows through us, that bioelectric feild that fills our meat with life. We live, yet the frog leg you hook to a battery to make it twitch does not. Semblance and Simaly, Meam and Metaphore.
Meta-metaphore? Did I make a funny?
My head hurts so badly I had to wear sun glasses in my last class tonight. The hum of the florecent bulbs made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I could focus, and yet I couldn't, trapped in that medium where everything is tunneled, and sound is a blur other than the one high pitched ticking sound of someone moving in their chair back and forth. Air feels strangely dense moving over my skin, especially on my arms, which feel like they are a half inch above where they actually are, especially the wrists.
I come home, get food warmed, only to have it taken when I havent touched it in 15 min because I am working franticly to finish a story I should have had in by five, and simultaniously being bothered by someone on aim. A writer flakes, and now I am stuck between letting the weekly fall through, or writing it myself, tomorrow or tonight. I need sleep, but I know I will not sleep well, because of how tightly wound I am. I should eat, yet the whole food thing now seems unapitizing because it only serves to get me yelled at. I will wait, and go put it up later, after things have calmed.
Stress from nothing, nothing to stress over. Yet here I am, feeling like I am running out of time, or something, already.
Tired. Anxious. Restless. Confused. Sad.
The air is so cool as to be almost cold in my room, with a fan going in the window. The cold feels good, reasuring, something to remind me that I have skin. Skin to wrap myself up in, skin to keep myself inside me. And as escapest as that sounds, what I want is to curl up inside myself and be warm, and safe, and know nothing but sweet sleep until I wake on my own.
Sunlight, shadow, warmth, blanket smell.
Tomorrow, I have a shrink appointment, hopefully to see how well I am doing. After today, I am not sure just how well I am doing. Yet more to be nervous about, yet more to wonder about. So many things to wonder about. Wonderland, how do you get to Wonderland... over the hill or underland, or just behind the tree? Strangely disjointed things like that keep wandering through my head, memories and things half forgotten, and yet I dont remember half of them three seconds later, unless I'm writing. Twitch of the finger on the key, thought recorded, twitch, record, twitch, record, twitch...
Neurons alive, moving inside me, drifting, pulsing em spikes which dance along their conductive coatings. Floods of neurotransmitters, salts, lithium, and myriads of other things drift along the currents of these trellised pathways. That is what consciousness is, that EM that flows through us, that bioelectric feild that fills our meat with life. We live, yet the frog leg you hook to a battery to make it twitch does not. Semblance and Simaly, Meam and Metaphore.
Meta-metaphore? Did I make a funny?
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