sanity

 jfc i feel so out of it it's insane. i actually feel like i'm falling off the deep end, but it's not the panicky, fingers-gripping the edge type, but more of a slow descent into madness. yes, madness. cos it can't be snything else, what i'm experiencing???? 

i'm just so. fucking. LOST. 

i feel like my brain has switched off, and another part of me feels like i'm on autopilot, and there's another part of me that's realising that i'm on autopilot and is freaking the fuck out. that same creative side of me that used to brim with purpose and ideas - it's now dog-paddling after any semblance of identity i have left. it's like a brooding, shapeless mass in my head that's left lamenting what it has become. left to ponder what could have been. what could be. 

my thoughts only make sense when i write them out. genuinely. when i'm left picking my brain in the quiet hum of meditation in the car before i leave for work, it never makes sense the way it makes sense when i dump every fuck-all thing that has happened to me on a blank piece of paper. it's my fucking lifeline, and i don't grapple for it a lot these days. i'm kinda hanging by a thread. 

when i write i feel like a teenage dream again. i feel 16 - believing everything and anything important that could happen to me or i could make happen would be borne from my brain and my words and this warm hand on paper. when i don't, there's a swarm of disgruntled bees in my head, with no hive. i suck at being the queen. 

things are supposed to be going good. the feeling of impending doom doesn't loom so much as it just laps at the shore these days. but it's still there in the murky waters. and i still feel completely and totally not in control. i have this aching buzz in me that needs to channeled but there's the shapeless mass that's always telling me i can't do anything about it. i simply won't know how to channel it until the day i die. i'm not meant to be a vessel. i'm just meant to feel it all and let it die inside me. at least's that's what the mass is telling me. i know it's not exactly right but i can't tell if it's utterly wrong either. 

i wish i could purge my brain. soak it in warm, soapy water and give it a good ol scrub. it seriously needs it. for now i'm going to imagine the practice of writing as a good scrubbing - if i can't do it physically at least i could do it figuratively. and the figurative is everything.