Avoiding over-punctuating

The heater turns on and melts my imagination. That's to say, I feel things slip. Now, I could very easily crack the window, level the room, but that won't last long as the room would grow cold and the heater wouldn't turn back on until I'd added blanket then comforter to my pile. Circuitous again, it would be. The worst of it is that rest comes similarly, shifting. I’m usually unable to just lie down and zonk out. Things require a certain level of attempt, of concentration or contemplated and exacted plans. And regardless, I’d walk up again at around three. So, I don’t lie down at all for a long time, until the balance is a little closer to bearable, until around now-ish.

My first thought to that end is simple: won’t this leave disruptive clouds under my eyes? Won’t it cause a disconnect from the text I’m reading on the el as all I can do to remind my eyes that they should stay open is watch others on the train. Usually, there’s at least one gentleman asleep, leaned over with his mouth a trap and his mustache growing passed his lips. I never hear him snore or sleeping, just know that he is; his breathing is indicative. Those around him, including the night waitress whose day is spent at Roosevelt or Truman not hardly bundled enough, seem concerned, like they’re his children and they know he needs the sleep. So, they block the door and mutter curses to the driver about keeping the door open or the train itself for the ill-temperate air pumping through the vents.

But what if I do fall asleep now? …no. Doesn’t help, really. The mornings will be slow, and I’ll read too much knowing that I could just wait until arriving at my desk, after pressing my jacket against my mesh chair. This, of course, will yield exhausted or bored or simply uninspired hours with the screen, or walking the hall to hold conversation that holds no prompting and the shifts in chairs and raises of eyebrows that tell me that they “actually have work to do.” I don’t, really. The piles could be executed in the time it used to take: 6 hours. None of this pacing oneself. Taking moments to jog in place and splash single-serve cups into my face and shake the beads off.

The floor could be pushed down, my eyes together and bent. I could work on the back muscles I’m supposed to, to best support the growth necessary back there, but I don’t. I mean, wouldn’t that just keep me up even longer, sweat even more with all the windows up, beginning to fog from the furnace and the steam that might come off me if I were in snow and a monk somewhere in Tibet; or so I’ve read somewhere. No. …nope. Allow the mind to wander seems to make more sense. This junction would seem more palatable if only my imagination and brain would work in this heat. Defiance, they heat lest often comes.

This all just came right out...

At some point, over the last couple weeks, I felt my mind slipping. Every once in a while a spike on the right side of my head, all the way down to the back of my eye or a stomach issue that that ends with a collapsible body. And I've been just confused. Looking and analyzing as much of what is happening in my life as possible and not seeing a discernible pattern. Well, maybe that's speaking a little too soon. There are things that do make sense, possibly. The stomach aches like I used to have in elementary and middle school are a singular example of that. ...well, actually, maybe some of the ache, the ones all over, are consistent with spiritual difficulties. A lack of teaching, prayer, specific, positive thoughts. The things that generally keep my going. It's just not that simple. It can't be. As I attempt to move passed those things I realize more. That I really miss Lindsey. Miss sitting around, feeling uneffected by the world and catching up on episodes of Lost while talking about our spiritual, emotional, and physical states. That her chiropractor believes she needs to eat more foods with trace minerals and after my session with Julie (the intuitive) something similar was brought up. There would be a level of release. Not completely unlike the gentleman who was just in the washroom and his gross moans of urination, but above all a feeling of connection, one that I don't necessarily feel with most people. A conversation of unrelenting truths and love and self reflective analysis.

So, I sit here, several hours after beginning to write this, wondering, still, how I might be able to avail myself of the stresses, and I remember that not long ago I wrote about the futility of focusing, stressing about the things we cannot change. Then, reality snaps back and I realize that those things aren't what are the real issue. Not even close, in fact. My problem rests in those issues, those problems that I do have, but refuse to make attempts on correcting. Those I've created for myself. Tombs or crypts for my head to live. But, dammit, I ain't dead yet.

Now rests the need to find motivation. to reuncover modes of recognition, acceptance, and conquering; also, to ease myself down as my penmanship is disintegrating as I write, like I'm running out of time, but I'm not; I'm free. Then, I can do something beneficial and worth while and awesome.

Here's looking for the push! Also, for my cellphone to call Dad and Lindsey, and vomit out rainbows of joy (eww) and frustration (also, eww).

Cataloguing has never been so exciting...or something

Finals are fast approaching, and thus comes stress. I've avoided it so far by trying to get work done early so as to fight off the inevitable backlash of too much sugar being produced by my liver, but I'm no longer hopeful that it'll maintain. Tonight I had a spike and ended up falling asleep for several hours missing my night class. Now, while this may have to do with a possible excess of food, it may have more to do with the growing feeling that I'm losing control of my stress levels. And, like most things, it doesn't stop at spikes in blood sugar and the possibility of landing myself in the hospital or on a gurney in an ambulance with the opposite problem I had three years ago. And while this time I would have fabulous insurance so as to lower the payment from $400 something to around $50 its still something that shakes me. The problem could octopus out (spiders suck) and latch onto the overwhelming stomach issues, the attempt to wipe out all parasites in my gut and "cure" my diabetes entirely, and the general disarray of joints and sockets. I mean, this is about as good a time as any for another dislocation, hyperextension, or loud popping or cracking from my shoulders.

I've just realized that I'm not to good blogging without writing it down somewhere first. there's something about permanence that dwells on these keys. the idea that once its typed its there forever and can nary be removed or changed. Hmm...I need to go say some prayers.

Next time: preparation writing first!