“I’ve been crying alot lately. It’s just how it is. 1 in 5000 north Atlantic lobsters are born blue. Blue is how things are sometimes. And by crying, crying a lot, the act of crying is raised above merely being a reaction to sadness and something that needs to stop. No. Crying is a way to be, how things are awhile; it’s your wondrous turn to be a blue lobster.”–Black Hockey Jesus
My emotional quotient has been on a binge and purge cycle lately and I’ve been unable to write it all down or even begin to make sense of it. And fuck it, I don’t want to. And it’s not trauma induced, or because something bad has happened to me… quite the opposite, I’ve been overcome with a multitude of things… many of them unspeakably beautiful. But changes have happened regardless, changes that I’m slow to process. So I cut the strings and detached from the analytics. And it’s not raw, it’s not even uncomfortable, it’s just too much to discuss.
And the stigma of my reaction, my core to extremity shutdown speaks to how I’ve become conditioned to seeing the world, the lowered expectations I’ve laid out for what is allowed to be a part of my existence. The words come and disappear at my fingertips when I settle them onto the keyboard awkwardly. Instead of creating words, I subdue them. I smother them before they can find the surface. Then, I wait for something to happen knowing it won’t, thankfully, so I can remain stalled out and numb. And I am numb.
Sometimes, at the most unexpected of times, a tear comes, like the last resilient bit of hope in me for something that can be moved out of emotional inertia trickling from the stone walls but, it is wiped easily away, and quickly forgotten. And the pools of depth are now shallow puddles, and I’m not praying for rain. I’m here, in the in-between, in the place where you stand beside your actual self and realize what’s become of you; not who but where and where somehow doesn’t feel like here. It’s somewhere else. Somewhere I don’t want to figure out right now.
And for once I like the stagnation and the belief that feeling nothing, even for a moment, might let the tender, torn, and swollen parts heal without my watchful eye, without my own voyeurism and commentary on their origins. In all the affectation, I don’t want to examine the reasons why, I just want them to absorb into me and once settled just sort of start moving again.
I guess it stands to reason that when your physical senses are overwhelmed the overload makes the ability to express that in words impossible, too close to touch, like being stuck between two walls closing inward so you don’t go forward or backwards, even sideways… you just stay where you are, going limp, submitting to the in between and surrendering to the saturation. For once not railing, fighting, pushing, or pulling… not even the gentile acceptance; rather finding the opposite of action. Complete inertia.
Ask nothing. Answer nothing. Just abide in the where I’ve become. And it’s where I will be until I’m not anymore.