hyenahell

it's been storming. it intends to continue storming. that's fine by me.

things swing up and down so quickly i can't keep track. one minute i am filled with the exhilaration of endless possibility. the next minute wallow in hopelessness. well. it's all in my head. yes, and that's the problem.

thunder rumbling, crackling as a backdrop. air filled with electricity. when it rains for days like this, i dream of floods. but not last night.

last night it was jules.

all these dreams spill over and combine and threaten to swallow up my mind. i dream for years, and then when i wake up... it's shocking.

i wake up and can't keep things straight in my head. everything- certain smells, sounds, images; anything and everything is a trigger. premonition and memory blur; the past and the present and the future dissolve. my mind races back, years ago, years ahead.

i can't keep it all straight, and i can't keep my thoughts from wandering. and i see familiar things for the first time, or remember things i've never seen before. and i can't follow conversations, i can't follow my own thoughts.

and it fades after a day or so. but then there will always be another dream.

i want it to keep storming forever. sitting in the house alone, seperated from the outside by the door, the walls, by the blue screen before me... i don't have to face the stark contrast, the shocking evidence that the world outside is so very much different from the one i feel inside me. it's a temporary shield. but it's comforting.

and then the thunder is comforting. letting me know that something much bigger than all of this is alive and looming and in the world... making me feel connected to it all, despite my disconnected state. but that's a different kind of connectivity. it's natural. it's understood. it does not hurt, because it's always been there.

but there are other things... the telephone. yes. i've said it before, but i suppose no one honestly believes that i am terrified of the telephone. well. i am. the feeling that a claustrophobic person gets when she is in a very small room- that is what i feel when the telephone rings. it tears me apart to hear that ringing. it is invasive, with it's bleeting urgency. yet i can't answer it. i don't know why.

it's this feeling of losing control of what comes in and what does not, and when. people can call you whenever they choose, and the phone will ring... something's coming into your home that you didn't put there. it becomes disembodied from whoever is at the other end of the line. it becomes an entity unto itself, this terrible, invading thing that cannot be reckoned with. that's how i see it.

and sure, sometimes it doesn't bother me as much as all that. sometimes it doesn't bother me at all, in fact. but when it does... well.

and it's as simple as this: when no outside influence is present, i get to decide what is real. certain things do not exist, or do exist, if they did not before. and nothing can prove me wrong.

perhaps i should be locked away. again, that is, except this time maybe they'll leave me alone. there are people, scores of them, that live in white rooms behind ivy-covered brick walls. i've met them, or at least some of them. and i'll tell you this. they are not mad. it is just that their own world is not compatable with the world forced upon them, and they are unable to reconcile the disparity between the two. sometimes they have outgrown their purpose and usefulness in the world; sometimes they never found one to begin with; sometimes the world itself decided that it had no place for them. so they bide their time behind these walls. "homes", they call them. there are homes for the mentally handicapped, for the mentally unstable, for the elderly, for the criminal, for the insane, for the unwanted... "disenfranchised" is a good word. and maybe that's where i belong.

but that would mean giving up, wouldn't it?

and i know myself. i will piddle through life half-assedly before i give up. even if surrendering is far nobler than existing in this transitory state, half-way here, and half-way gone. i just don't have it in me, to commit to one or the other.

so i write it all out in very long pieces, much like this one, trying to work it all out. and i write it all out to keep a record of sorts. and i write it all out because it somehow makes things more real.

i write it all out because in doing so, it helps me live in a world that i feel has no place for me.

and my reasoning, however delusional or irrational it may be, has led me to believe that living, even with the slings and arrows and the whole nine yards, sure beats the hell out of the alternative.

love, all.
-Hyena.