Pinkish-Orange

    You know when your hands get wet... That glossy look, that glare they get in the light. Small white blobs of reflections that perfectly contour the shape of the liquid on your hands. Still being able to see your hands through the film that covers them. This feeling is new, well. It's familiar, but I still haven't seen it quite like this. For some reason my hands look like a different color than when they are covered in water. You see, with water- I still see well... my hands, like the normal color they are- with a bit more gloss. But with whatever this new sensation is, my hands are changing color... Normally a sandy beige color. But now, it's somewhere in between pink and orange. I can't think of a name for it, or any other way to describe it... And even stranger, near my finger tips I can't even see my hands, or the skin below- It's just these blobs of pinkish-orange. Even with the light shining on these buildups of whatever it is, it remains dark. Almost like a navy color, but it's not blue- but it's still that dark, saturated, pinkish-orange. I don't really know how it happened either. One second my hands were fine and now they are just covered in this fluid. 

    I was looking at myself in the mirror, just pondering the idea of free will, the ability to love and hate, the war between the heart and the mind. But what I found myself questioning most was the vastness of emotion. I'm sad... not just now but generally- How can I feel happy at a party with friends but so overwhelmingly dissatisfied with the concept of this thing we call life. How can I enjoy the moment but hate what the moment resides in. It's like hating a book but loving one page. My opinion on the book stays the same, but something about that page stood out. Then the mirror was broken. There were triangular shards hanging onto the edges, clamped down to the cardboard on the back by the cheap, silver, plastic frame. but in the middle- well there was no middle. Everything in the center has collapsed into a pile of layers of glass near the bottom edge of the mirror. With some smaller shards in the sink, that had fallen in. 

    My eyes came back into focus and my depth perception had sharpened, as zoning out has made those features slightly askew. Whereas before everything was flat, it felt two dimensional, as if everything in my frame of vision was flattened out in an orthographic way. It was blurry, on top of that. Everything was a fuzz and there was a mix of color where everything overlapped into an obscure gaussian blur. It was then, once I had come back to the sink and the what-was mirror, I saw these kind of cool looking markings on my forearms and hands. It was so strange. When you moved from my elbow to my wrist, there was this sudden line where my skin was dry and clear, to where there was this neat pattern. There was just one line before, where my skin changed color, with the dark bead leading it, getting smaller as it traveled. Then there were two lines, that diverged at first but came together and merged to one line, more skin discolored and a bigger bead at the end. I don't know where this pinkish-orange paint-like substance was coming from, but it was a sudden split where my arm was dry, and then my wrist and hands were discolored. 

    It came with a sensation as well... Now this I can say was new, I can't think of anything like it- But the best way I can think to put it is a burn. The surrounding area of that weird part of my wrist burning, like I had held a flame onto it or something. But it stung too, like a thousand small needles tracing the area the pinkish-orange stuff was coming from. It wasn't that bad at first, but the more I thought about the burn and sting, the worse it got. 

    It also made me feel weird. Ethereal I would say. It felt like I was weightless, but under immense pressure on all sides. It felt like someone was squeezing my head on every point of the surface. My eyes flickered and faded between that state of blur and fuzz, along with tipping a balance between a three dimensional, and two dimensional world. My head felt heavy, a bowling ball on my slouching shoulders, bouncing up and down as I juggle it in hopes of it not dropping like a rock, hitting the surface of my white, porcelain sink. My arms felt heavy, logs connected and joined at my torso. Pivot points that sank below the edge of the sink, with my brutally discolored hands limply laying on the surface. 

    I snapped back into it for a fraction of a second, resetting my position back to how I was before the overflow of blood, the liquid of life, and a slit on my skin, my tissue, muscle, and reaching to my arteries. Slicing my nerves and tendons on the way. A river of red. Red. Red! The color in between pink and orange. The oxygenated blood pooling in my hands and on the tips of my fingers, dripping onto the sink- in a polka-dot pattern of death. The burning around the slice grew in waves. The fire and sting of a million hornets poking the canyon of skin, the raised edges of tissue relieved of tension and elasticity of uncut skin. I drift in and out of consciousness, my head bouncing, my eyes rolling, my breathing getting heavy- and my body heating as if it were on fire. My stomach churned, the feeling as it someone was mixing my guts by hand. Caving in violently as the muscles contracted with the feeling of blood loss. And before I knew it, a minute passed in a second, and I could no longer feel my arms, numb with a majority of the rest of my body. Pins and needles combined with simple nonexistence. My vision and sentience come to, only for a moment. My hands were pale, I couldn't feel my arms. My skin ached. My sink went from white to red- And the only thing that caught my eye was the shard of broken glass used to slice my inner forearms. The brutality of thought slipped by the guards of my consciousness, a terror attack against myself. A decision made not in anger, sadness, confusion. Rather, a decision I didn't know I made until the realization of what had happened was the final thought to cross my brain, leaving not even a moment to writhe in regret.

A Doctor Might Call this "D.A"

"I think my memory is fading..."

1. 

    The weather is overcast- there's no sunshine, god-rays... There's not even a sky, one single monotonous half light, half dark cloud covers the sky in every direction. Looking north, the sky is that middle gray tone- the same view you would get if you looked west, or east, or south. I wouldn't say it's gonna rain, but it definitely isn't a day to go for a walk. The air feels... neutral, It is not hot nor cold. My body is floating in temperature, a state without sweat or shiver. a day where a thin silk long-sleeve shirt would be just fine, where some thin socks would make my feet feel perfect. And some lightly fibered pants would be comfortable. The air smells cool, not in a sense where it's cold outside, no. The air smells cool in a sense of, I can feel the air traveling through my nostrils. A sort of cool when you're running away, and the you can feel the breeze of the wind, kind of cool. But it's not hot or cold out. 

    My bed feels just right, I'm not sinking into it, but it's not so stiff that my back hurts, or my arm hurts, or my neck hurts. My gray blanket covers my legs, my hips, my feet, and my knees. But my upper half is exposed, without blanket, open to the air as it is in the rest of the room. waking up to such mundanity is off-putting in one way or another, but I can't complain. Hopefully tomorrow, something will change. 

    My matte black clock in the center of my nightstand reads "12:00 PM." It's noon, It has been 12 hours since midnight- and in 12 more hours it will be midnight, noon, the middle of the day. The day is Wednesday... Sunday was three days ago, and Saturday is in three more days, It's the middle of the week... And the date, today... Today is July 2nd... July, the 7th month out of 12 months in the year, though July 2nd marks the 183rd day in the year which leaves 183 more days until January 1st. 

    It is silent. But- not silent silent. I don't hear dogs barking or birds chirping. But I can hear the leaves rustling. But I think I have to listen for noise to find it, my brain blocks everything out by nature. But If I lay just right, close my eyes. I can hear the ringing in my ears, I can also hear the noise in my head, the light whispers that fade in and out. I can hear the low rumble of the blood in my veins, I can feel my heart beat, which- strangely enough, for some reason my brain makes noise for it... I wish I knew why. But the high ringing, the low rumbling, only to be interrupted by zoning back into reality and listening.

    I step off my bed, rotating my body at the hips- equidistant from both ends of my bed; planting both my feet on the ground in a not high nor low thud. Standing up straight is difficult, as my posture could use some work- I, at this point, naturally have a slouch in my stance- though I am forced to consciously straighten out to compensate. I can maintain that perfection in stance for only a short while before my vertebrae realign themselves to their most used position, slouched. Walking at a pace of 60 steps per minute. I can feel the heels of my feet touching the gray vinyl flooring, the hardness of the wannabe-wood canceled out by the comparatively soft padding of my house-shoes. My heels touching the floor, then smoothly rolling to the tips of my feet, not on my toes- rolling just shy of it. Then just as my left foot touches the ground, my right lifts in the air. My feet, which connect to my body- are always planted to the ground, at least one foot touching the floor at any given time. 

    My kitchen is, what I would estimate around 15-20 paces away. Now that's not too bad, what is a 15-20 second walk. Counting 15-20 seconds can go by slowly... But think of where you were 20 seconds ago. Chances are, you were reading the paragraph that came before this one, or nearing the end of the one that came before the one that came before this one... My kitchen, It's white marble countertops and dark gray cupboards that harbor white ceramic plates, mugs, and bowls. Drawers housing silver spoons, forks, and knives. My kitchen is, medium sized. Two people can stand and chat in there comfortably, but there is no island in the middle. One wall has enough space to make a sandwich, and the other arm of the L-shaped set gives two people plenty of space to make themselves a sandwich each. Why sandwiches? Well you need some space to make them. You need somewhere to lay the loaf of bread, and a small section to put the ingredients and toppings in a way that don't get in the way, so you can pick from each different pile of food and lay it on one piece of bread, not to mention space for your plate, and maybe to pour yourself a drink. Regardless of what food you are making, or what drink you are making- at the end of the day. There is space to do what you need to do on one side, and on the other, there is space for two people to do what they need to do- without getting in the way.

I make my black coffee, filling my mug about 50% of the way. A coffee that is bitter when left untampered, but the one teaspoon of sugar I add makes it a little less bitter, without making it too sweet. It's- just right. Along with those. My toaster, that has heat ranging from one to eight; I set the dial to four... I made two pieces of toast, as, that's all my toaster would house. But that's okay with me. One slice of toast would leave me still hungry, that's not enough... But I surely couldn't eat make three pieces and eat all of them, I worry I might leave half of the third left, or as small as one bite. Two is just right for me. 

    I take my food and drink to the dining room table and sit. both legs parallel and straight, my back laying flush against the back of the chair, and my arms lay out in front of me, a position that is mirrored on both sides. "12:30 PM" My matte black watch reads. I sit. And I sit. "1:00 PM" My matte black watch taunts. 30 Minutes? Not a bite has been taken of my toast. And my coffee is exactly where it was when I made it. I studied my food for roughly 10 seconds before studying my matte black watch again... "1:15 PM." Staring blankly at my watch, feeling neither disbelieve, bewilderment, or confusion. I suppose I took the numbers on the face as they were. I suppose it was 1:15 PM. The seconds passed without me, enough seconds to make up 45 minutes worth of time. My eye sight was fuzzy, I could see and read, I could make out the text across the room. But understanding what the glyphs meant was difficult. My memory seemed foggier than before. I sigh deeply, closing my eyes, enjoying the breath of air. I scoot my chair back, and stand- my right knee cracking as I did so. The two slices of toast on my plate remain as they were 46 minutes ago. And the coffee just the same. I turn off the lamp by my side, grab the plates and take them back to the kitchen. I- I turned off the lamp... I turned off the lamp, why am I turning off lamps at 1:46 PM. The outside was darker than I remembered, and my eyes were foggier now, a physical blur this time, rather than an absence of thought and coherency. I scramble to check my matte black watch and am greeted with "9:32 PM" In my madness and urgency to check the time, I had dropped the plate of toast. It had only occurred to me I dropped it once I went to raise my wrist to read the time. Once the situation and idea of cleaning up the food and crumbs I checked the floor, expecting catastrophe, and in my seeking and looking for the mess, my eyes glance the counter and what am I faced with but the plate of toast resting on the counter, next to the mug of black coffee, 50% filled, one teaspoon of sugar. 

    Where had the minutes gone, where had the hours gone. No one contacted me, no one called or texted, no one knocked at the door, no one left mail. It seemed that one minute it was noon, and the next it was nearing dusk. Where had the minutes gone!? no one made any attempt to check in, it felt not too long ago I had woken up, and now it's nearing my bed time... In a fit of sudden bewilderment, as that had been the breaking point. I storm to my black couch, that sits on my gray carpet, in my living room with white painted walls. I rip the matte black watch off my wrist, which had left marks not only in the vicious tearing but from sitting pressed tightly against my skin. I hold the watch in front of my face, my right hand facing palm side up, with the face of the watch sitting in the middle with each end of the band laying over the top and bottom of my hand, dangling freely. I watch the second hand pass 15, then 16, then 17, then 18, then 19, and so on. Where had the seconds gone. Why is it 9:34 PM when it should be 12:45 PM. I keep the watch face in my line of sight without fail. Grabbing a notebook, and a sheet of paper, along with a black pen, with black ink. I sit in the same spot of the couch, in the same position as I had not one minute ago. Legs spread apart, feet planted, slouched over, as my body naturally does, and my head facing the palm of my hand, facing my head. I waited the remaining 10 seconds until my watch read 9:35 PM. The instant the second hand reached 12, at the uppermost position of my matte black watch, I put a small line on the paper with every second that passed. Two seconds after it struck 9:35 PM, there was one small line, then another next to it. Five seconds into 9:35 PM, there were 4 small lines, and one crossing through from the top left, to the bottom right, repeating this pattern every 5 seconds. I focused in and was attentive with every second that passed until 9:36, then 9:37, then 9:38. I felt that living in the moment was the only way to live in the moment without missing it. There was no longer ink on the page to represent the seconds that passed. Instead, there were indentations in the paper, scratches that followed the ink only due to the fact that my pen was out of ink, accompanied with my matte black watch that read "10:58 PM" I had zoned out, not a thought crossed my mind, nor an image or idea. It was a blackout that I watched unfold. I lay back in defeat, for I had lost a day to no one but myself. My dissociative state threw this calendar day away. Nearly 12 hours that I could have done universally anything were gone. 75,600 seconds since I had woken up. Count that, count 60 seconds, tally every second in a minute. Now repeat that 1,260 times. 

    My day was gone. I figure what else do I do now but sleep, What else was there to do. With the state that I was in, I figure the only result of consciousness was just devaluing the idea of it. I walk to my room, at a pace of 60 steps per minute, crossing the dark gray vinyl wannabe-wood floors and the hardness of them canceled out by the comparatively soft padding of my house-shoes. I sit on my bed, before laying- with my hips equidistant from each end of my bed. I rotate 90 degrees, laying my head at the top of the bed, and resting my feet near the bottom. Covering my feet, knees, and hips with the blanket; leaving my torso, head, and arms untouched by the cover. I close my eyes, slowly, and begin the most difficult task of that day. Remembering... Remembering what I did from 12:30 PM to 1:00 PM, so on, and so forth. 

2. 

    The weather was sunny, the golden raise of morning creep through my blinds, pouring through the window- illuminating my room with a soft fiery orange that a sunrise will bring. There is a sky this morning. One half of the sky, looking west, a dark navy blue color, with faint white dots that we call stars starting to fade. The night sky, the hours I lay resting, running away cowardly at the sight of the rejuvenating morning sun. And the other half of the sky, looking east, a warm orange. A perfect mix of pinks, purples, and blues given by cotton like clouds, a wisp through the sky. How... warm feeling. My blanket, laying half way up my torso, with my body lying on the far right half of my mattress. I check my matte black watch, that lay the closest edge to me on my nightstand reads "6:05 AM." Fairly early for my standards I suppose. Eagar to spend my Thursday productively, unlike the day prior. Only 2 days from Saturday, the weekend. July 3rd, 184 days into the year, and only 181 left. My matte black watch reads "Wednesday, July 2nd." It was Wednesday... Sunday was three days ago, and Saturday is in three more days, It's the middle of the week... And the date, today... Today is July 2nd... July, the 7th month out of 12 months in the year, though July 2nd marks the 183rd day in the year which leaves 183 more days until January 1st... The only difference is I was one year older than before. For every day prior to this one was the same as the day before and the day after it.

Artistic pride, intent, guilt, hope.

     I suppose I have this fear of annoyance. I want to post about my problems, but I don't wanna fill peoples feed. I want to want to share that I made a post on here, but I feel people already put up with me enough. "I wanna post the link to this poem but who would actually care" What makes it worse is the person I am having problems over, the person I'm writing after knows why it's happening. They know our conversation then they see this soon after. I feel bad- I write when I am feeling down, but at the same time- regardless of how bad of a mood I am in, I take pride in this. I take pride in my writing, regardless of the topic- I want to share it. Hell, why do you think I made this entire thing in the first place. I want to be recognized and complimented, but that's hard to do when you feel judged, attacked and guilty for having the problems in the first place. Add all that with my ever strong desire for them to see it. I am gonna have the same problem with this one-

Sometimes I wonder why I do this. I made this page to share my poems. I have a depressive episode one minute, then the next I am watching the post's analytics to see if people are reading it. I listen to sad music and write about my feelings then post the link with this arrogant and prideful "look what I made" attitude. It's like making a painting in blood then hanging it up in a gallery with flashy lights. That's why I question if my problems are real. If I felt the way I thought I did and tell people I do, then why would I do this... 

I have no needs. I am overfilling peoples cup from my empty chalice.

I Have No Needs

10/03/2021

How strange.

    As much as I would love to stand on this podium with a poem, I feel todays event should be rather different. I could either; A, tell a story with a rhythmized structure or a backbone cluster. On the contrary, B, very plain and boring with much more reading than enjoying. I, as of this word forward indulge in the latter.

⁋

    How strange this game of life is, humans so- informed, well enough so that lying was made. An evil structure that is built on no stronger of a foundation for the cause as deceiving. The idea, nay, art of resewing the fabrics of trust, memory, and faith. An immaculate, and indescribable carpet-pad. Every memory- good, bad, indifferent. This carpet of every conceivable second of a persons being, persuading their decisions, emotions, personality, sociality, and cells. This rug is held together with glue, no normal glue at that. A glue that mixed in with gasoline. This awestriking rug of life can be overwhelmed with devastating heat, torment, and discomposure with a single spark. That's all it takes to break someone down to their frame. One single spark and you can send man from the peaks of Everest to the pits of the Mariana Trench. "The key to “lying” is, of course, intent." 

"Lying"

    What a grotesque word. Lying. Liar. Lied. Start the word with an L and annunciate the Y/I however your heart screams, speaks, or whispers. You lied to me. You tricked me, you took what I was happiest thinking, what fueled me, my drive, my ambition, my reason. You broke it. You are a liar. I cannot trust you, me, anyone that resembles the context of your character regardless if its you or not. Because of what you did. There is no health in a heart that deceives a human for any other reason than worry.

Seems I've been side-tracked.

    Life is strange. Really, I could leave it at that, and context-less, a majority of the populous would agree. Strange, how strange is that, life is strange. Everyone knows the punishment for birth is death and no one can say for sure why. Everyone is given the titles of lessons at birth and throughout life, though they are just measly titles. No description, clarification or questioning. Everyone is handed by the Devine, a blank sheet of paper. Your father is dead, maybe natural, maybe murder, maybe unquestioned; be it as it may, you check your sheet of paper and see 5 bold, dark, gothic letters. 

"Grief"

    But the paper says no more. Desperately looking at these words clueless as to the reason or how or why, you grab your finger, pricked and bleeding. You write out the definition. Not the definition as it is truly defined, not by human nature but by the heart, rather, by the way you felt. The dogma of your brain and hearts arguments. How strange. No really, this is no poetic, philosophically based nature of writing and thought. This is reality. This is the world our blood pumps in, this is the world men kill without reason in. This is the world life is created and destroyed. This is the world no one can change despite our flawed view of it, and our attempts at trying. The world we live in is a world where people, every single one of us, so many people the human mind through hundreds of thousands of years of evolution still cannot grasp. This is the world where people think. No one can describe or understand it, but everyone will agree its strange.

I cannot say for certain where I was going with that

    I am sitting here at my computer. It is 1:55 AM, September 10, 2021. Clicking away at my computer thinking of things to put on this website. I have no place to speak on love. I sit here, leaned back and bewildered with a wave of realization that I have no words for love. I write, not with any reason in mind, I just do it and share it. But of all the words I can write on here, I can't describe love. It breaks my heart.

I'm going to be thinking about this. I have not felt companioning love.

    I just can't help but feel lost on my attempts at words and truth, I wrote about trickery and grief, whilst never having lost something to the clasping hands of death. How can I write on grief never having mourned. Thus what gives me the right to opinionate about dishonesty regardless if I am farthest from a stranger... I'm an accomplice and a soulmate to lying. Such a vulgur word I avoided using it, hence replacements.

I am hurt at the realization of my blissful unawareness. My ignorance. My inability to process feelings.

    My mind is blank, I have no more thoughts or words to write. I sit here desperately trying to think of something to put, an emotion, a thought but my head reins hollow... why.

I will continue later, thank you, goodbye.