The Ghost In The Machine
self preservation at its finest
The baited; glass-fragile heart on my sleeve will never let me be, just the ghost in the machine.
A Freudian slip, a misaligned battle of the wits, who loses out- mind, body, or spirit? The ego, it goads, or so it goes, the balance between the rest. Still bleeding, a beat. A skip. Almost as if I forgot to live.
A trifold balance that won't let me simply be, just the ghost in this damned machine.
To not feel, for once, the sting and bite of self imposed pain.
I know I just said “I hurt my own feelings again,” but I blame this baited; glass-fragile heart lay slain.
But the story goes, Id goads, I’ll do it again.
To hurt, to heal, glass-shard heart, will never let me be….
More than the dogma of the ghost in the machine.
~KD
It's been a bear of a week. I realize it's only Wednesday but it feels like a sea of sullen Mondays. I've struggled with the case of the moops (i.e. the sads), the heavy, and the tired. The heavy I can put down. I'll put it down, rest for a moment, pick it back up and carry on. The sadness tags along, side by side, kicking rocks. The tired? Well, that's the all encompassing presence of ...blah. Just.. BLAH. I realize there are times I try too hard, or say too much, or just talk too much in general. I'll write about this, ad nauseam, or nausea but not quite Sartre's level, but anyways, I'll beat this dead horse. Again.
I promised a dear soul with an aching heart that I'll rest for a few weeks. To just...stop.. stop trying. I'm going to take her word because her advice is valuable. Each word a gold coin to Mario style capture and hold on to. In other words, she gives solid fucking advise. I'm going to do what I absolutely need to do; take care of what's in front of me. Nothing else. the rest of the time I can focus on me, my mini-me, and my school. For anyone else, well, they will just need to hold tight while I breathe. Maybe they won't? And that's okay. Right now, I need to slow the rapidly beating heart in my chest, steady my breathing and recenter myself. Looking at this, it sounds as if I'm spiraling out of control. The funny thing is, is that I'm not. At all. But.... I know my sensitivities, and how easy it is to get lost in the things that hurt. Physical, mental, or emotional pain it doesn't matter. They all have the "lose yourself ability". It's like the moment you're laydown drunk, and you feel the spins coming, and you ground a foot to the floor. The moment you lift your heel as it follows to the toes, you know you've lost it. Nausea. Still, not Sartre. I'm not saying life is going to make me puke, but it's certainly not giving me the warm fucking fuzzies right now.
I'm going to grant myself the time to write. Write what I need to. Blog, poetry, lyrics, this shit doesn't need a label. Whatever I need to get out, I'm granting myself the space to do it. I'm not asking anyone else, I'm just doing it. Not that I would need permission, but to put the phone down and not worry about a response. Simply, I can't be something to everyone and right now the pieces of me being pulled away from the self is telling.
I'm sorry, but I'm really not. Not everyone gets access to me. I don't owe everyone a response, polite banter.
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