In my sixteen and a half years of living, I’ve come to the conclusion that the subconscious thoughts are the only thoughts worth thinking—they mean less emotionally and physically while connecting thoughts to syntax.
One hundred and twelve antibiotics—one hundred and twelve antibiotics had to reverse the damage that my mind did to my stomach. I suffered through a month of piercing pain followed by fourteen days of four pills every twelve hours with side-effects ranging from running to the toilet to turning my nose up at food. The overall stomach ulcer experience made me want to switch my mind into aphorism mode; it made me realize I’d rather trade insanity for comfort, excruciating green tea experience for the strength to break free from the fetal position.
Lately I’ve noticed my life is saturated with these “What the [creative word of your choosing] am I doing?!” and so many infinities of multiple possibilities. Isn’t that part of the joy of living though? The ability to have so many damn available options that the thoughts/possibilities make you paranoid during the day and awake at night as your mind works around the clock to find a break.
I’ll be the first to admit that my mind is obnoxious; it builds all these mental barriers to the point where the less I think, the better I am in the long run. But you know what? At the end of the day when I’m laying in bed with two twenty pound snoring cats, I tell myself a colorful phrase to flick the switch off as the internal light bulb goes out.
The subconscious is a glorious thing in full force that jolts the body awake with adrenaline if things get more than it can handle.
To me, writing is a lot like dreaming; I have to distance myself as a person to allow the thoughts I don’t think to embrace their limelight. And I envy people that don’t have to do this because once this happens, the rest of my body goes numb as paranoia from loud noises rise. The same is true for the reverse; it takes a lot for me to have in my emotional state while I read as I’m so used to having to build barriers to allow something beyond my emotions to write that it takes the literary equivalent of a military tank to break it down.
In my sixteen and a half years of living, I’ve come to accept this equilibrium of distance—of coming off stronger in my writing than dialogue and finding the keys to the doors words lock rather than skipping down a hall of open doors.
I’m always bound to be uncertain.
I’m always bound to be indecisive over my choices,
but at least I know that now
only lasts as long as the future and the past will;
the amount of time we stretch them out
into three separate points.