I give myself too much credit with my paranoia. No one gives a shit about little old me. And I don't mean that in an 'I'm going out to eat worms' way. I'm just small potatoes. I'm not complaining. I guess I'd like to be a little larger, potato-wise, but I certainly don't want to win the blue ribbon at the county fair.
I fear my brain. We should all fear our brains. No one knows how they work and they can break us in an instant. You'll never see it coming. Imagine all the embarrassment of a lifetime unveiled in one sleepless night. If you are brave, imagine the world as you understand it...imagine your faith and dreams gone...imagine having the rug pulled out from under you.
I know it is all just electrical impulses and gloop and that's fine. Knowing something doesn't necessarily mean you believe it. When I was young, my Paupa had a green box on his dresser. It was cheap and vinyl and populated by little drawers. Treasures and trinkets. That is how I imagine my brain. A cheap box with one drawer that won't open. And if you think I'm going to open it, you're out of your fucking mind.
Frustration and hopelessness. I miss playing an electric guitar really loud. Loud enough and I could blot out the entire world. Just me. Fingers stumbling over the fretboard. Mind overpowered by the chainsaw roar.
The world is full of majesty, but I catch glimpses of it so rarely. Like trying to spot an owl in the top of a high, dark tree. This is because I fucked with the circuitry. Maybe some of it was already there. But I stuck a fork into the toaster brain and stabbed until it sparked. A tendril of smoke. I watched it fade into a blackness so profound I could not run from it.
I am ungrateful. I am fortunate in so many ways. I wish my brain agreed more often. And without assistance from the little blue pills my doctor gives me. They scramble the circuitry, too. My doctor disagrees. I am tired of arguing about it.
I stand on tip-toed feet. If I was only taller. I reach until I can feel the muscles in my shoulder rebelling. Until I can feel things unhinging inside. I know it's fucking there and I hope that if I keep looking...
No one wants to hear this bullshit. If you made it this far, I owe you an apology. It's all nonsense. I don't even think it has worth. This blithering and philosophical masturbation of the mind. I didn't even want to write today. But the mind likes its guilt. And I'm tired of feeling guilty.