on fighting, on resistance

 

I fear that the waiting place will always be a waiting place.
i fear that what I see is beautiful is just a process of convincing myself.
I fear that one day people won’t be enough to protect me from me.
I fear that the world will not become that meaningful again,
that I begin to tell myself, “you’ve grown used to it.”
I fear this isn’t a phase.
i fear the lack of proper self-care, but still
some form of self-care nonetheless, is what escalates this madness.
Is that . .. possible?
I fear that the moment I do not self-identify with myself, that
I won’t self-identify with anything, because it’s already
starting to happen.
If I fear apathy, is it just waiting to take its course?
Or is this tamed apathy?
Do I need to fully fall apart to come back together?
I do not know how to piece these fragments anymore.
When everything seems too real and unreal and too much and
too less, and too alone and too lonely, at what point do you
cut the bullshit and give up?
Why has everything turned into an escape?
I’m not concerned with the truth, I’m just concerned with
if this matters, because I’ve started to see it for myself that
it doesn’t. If I’m tired of crying and if I’m tired of smiling,
if everything is too fleeting to try and capture,
am I becoming more myself or am I
disappearing? Tell me, are the two distinguishable?
What if they become inseparable?

What if everything centers around reassurance?
Telling myself this over…and over…and over…
again that I will be fine, it could be worse.
What am I trying so hard to prevent?
What if there isn’t a past that pushes me,
What if there isn’t a future that inspires me,
What if it isn’t depression, what if it isn’t anger.
What if it isn’t even…insanity.
What if you’re past relishing in some
mental rut, some emotional fixation, some physical crave.

What do you do?
What if you don’t care to live?

The only difference between inner madness and outward madness is if you decide to show it.

Everybody tells me I’m fine.
I feel fine when I’m with others.
But that’s because I care about my image.
That’s because I’m afraid of people caring.
I’m afraid that people caring won’t bring me back.

What do you do?
I remind myself I’m just in a funk.
I remind myself to do what I love, but what I love
no longer holds the meaning it did, if at
all.
They tell me I’m just overthinking it all.
I am.
But i’m already very much aware of this, I have been for…
a while.
What if you always come back to this, to this
How do you define “this”?

Self-control always keeps me
in tack. Nothing will happen
to me. In a moment’s spare, this will be
irrelevant. This is the worst part. Instability.

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