I have come to a conclusion. It is okay not to be okay.
I used to think that if you talked amongst yourselves long enough you would give me time to figure it out. I think I have an imprint of my handprint on my back.
Do I blame you? Certainly.

Focus. Vitality. Endurance.
Yeah. Right. Because we can now bottle these things like we can bottle flavors. We can synthesize vitality? I didn't know that.  I wonder what it looks like as it coagulates in its chemical vat-- I wonder what color energy is, I wonder about the consistency of focus, the flavor of strength. I wonder about a lot of things I shouldn't. I'm a thinker. Not an actor. And I savor an increased heart rate, a twitch between the shoulder blades, a slight sweat on the palms. I like feeling things work: even if they work only because I force them to. There's a kind of awe in the healing process. There's a kind of primeval peace. Too bad the mind doesn't work like that. Too bad I can't peel off a bandage and see how well the scar is healing-- too bad I can't even see the scar. Maybe it doesn't exist. Maybe I'm making it exist. Maybe it's not there. I like a hyperactive heart, a hyperactive muscle lattice, but I abhor a hyperactive brain. This and that and this and that, and this and that, and maybe and no and perhaps and perhaps and perhaps. Maybe it's you. Maybe it's me. Why haven't they gotten around to bottling truth yet? It would have to come with a million warning labels, a thousand yellow stickers with black skulls saying something along the lines of: Caution! Drink at your own risk! The more I examine myself the less I like what I find. I don't know if I could handle the truth. It's bad enough to realize the problems, the motivations, the causes and the reasons, and to understand how ridiculous they are, without knowing if they're something I can help or not. No one likes being told they have a condition. How bad is it, doctor? Do they do mind amputations? Goodbyehippocampus, goodbyecortex, goodbyethoughtcenterandparanoiaglandsandjealousylobes. I'm sure a proffesional could tell what parts need to go--armed with an icecream scoop, they could carve out the rotten sections like bad pieces from a melon. Goodbye anxiety, goodbye frustration, goodbye all the things  that go bump in the night.
Is it sad that this is the only writing I can do? I'm not an actor. I'm a juggler. And I don't quite have the feel for the pins yet, which is a shame because they're studded with knives and bits of glass and if I'm not careful I could end up losing a finger. CaUtIoN. That drink has teeth. That song has meaning. Caution. Emotions come bottled now, with names like Blu Pom and Xenergy. Caution: mind the gap.
If there's such a thing as phantom limbs, can there be such a thing as a phantom mentality? Sometimes I can feel something reasonable twitch a little, telling me to ease up a little, put some slack on the line, handle the bowing pins of life and the ice sculpture of a relationship with a bit more care. But I'm not an actor. I'm a flailer. Failer. Failure. Epic Fail.
Fail, fail. Hah. Funny. Knee jerk reaction. Stiff spine. Ghost thoughts. Shoulder twitch. Restless.
Restless.
Is it morning yet?
Is it dawn?
Xenergy. Energy. 
Haha. Xenergy. Xen. Calm. Restless.
Restless. Restless.
I just hate how it sounds.

I've been up eight hours and somehow I feel like I've been awake eight days. I tend to write a lot when I get tired. None of it means anything, and none of it is worth keeping....which is why I'm doing it here for a change instead of on paper because if it was on paper, I'd just have to throw it away in the morning. What am I saying? It is morning. Glorious, sunless, sleepless morning. I think I'm becoming just a bit nocturnal.
I want cereal. No, oreos. No, orange juice. No, what I really want is beer. Or to take my contacts out. Or to lie down and go to sleep. That's what I really want. To lie down and pass out and not wake up until I can fence or drive or take a hot shower or know for certain that they'll never try to say thank you. Or scream. I haven't screamed in ages. I think it should be mandatory for everyone.
I think about a lot of things when I'm tired and I don't have a right to really be tired because I've only been functioning for eight hours. My internal clock is severely flawed. Is it really Sunday? When will it be Tuesday? I want to swim. Maybe I should detach myself from these virtual words and go hop the fence and float around in the pool for while like some dead seal or something. That sounds divine. 
Nah, what I really want to do is hop a plane. A plane to India. Or Iran. Or Tibet. Or Finland. Or Africa. Or Ecuador. Come back a week later with dozens of pictures of National Geographic Merit--maybe even pull a Matt and dance on a rock suspended over a 1000 meter drop because hey, life's not meant to be sedentary. Or boring. Or long lasting. Lol. 
I don't know what I'm trying to say. I just find typing to be utterly amusing right now. i have a feeling that if I dropped all thoughts of ever getting to sleep and just took off, I could write for hours on end now. All this meaningless psychobabble that has no merit and would promptly be shredded if it wasn't digital. Mmm... Yeah.
Anyway. I want an airsoft gun. And a ceiling fan to shoot. You have to be careful though. Shooting your own finger hurts and if you do hit the spinning blades, odds are they're going to rain down another person's dust all over you. I've had it happen before. Once. What a night.
Night. Morning. Sleep. Corneal Ulcers. Kitchen Sinks. Boddington.
Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These. Who Am I To Disagree? Traveled The World And The Seven Seas. Everybody Looking For Something. Some Of Them Want To Use You. Some Of Them Want To Get You Used By You. Some Of Them Want To Abuse You. Some Of Them Want To Be Abused By You.
Vodka. Walls. Bacchi Ball. Sugar Water. Dead Pigeons. Live Grackles. Cigarettes. 
Hmm. Whatever.
 

Ever thought you had things firmly under control? That, for once, things were making sense? That hey: you could survive the days rather than get brutalized by them? Let's face it. We've all gotten split lips and black eyes and smashed mouths from life at one point or another. It's the way the world rolls.

Just as I thought it was going alright,
I find out wrong when I thought I was right,
s'always the same, it's just a shame, that's all.  

And I'm not complaining. I'm really not. Because we all go through ups and down, troughs and peaks. Fucking physics and wave motion, catch my drift? Half the time, the problem's in our own heads if you stop to think about it. Sure, point a finger at fate or bad luck if you want to. But our mind's got peaks and troughs as well.

I could say day, you could say night,
Tell me it's black when I know that it's white,
s'always the same, it's just a shame that's all.

 Today I woke up and I said to myself, "Let's do this. Let's make an effort at being social and productive and content. Let's go to class, let's go to the gym, let's run six miles, let's find someone and go to a restaurant for a nice dinner. Let's do something. Let's live a little." That was the peak. What was the trough? The continuation of a routine that I make no effort to change.

Turning me on, turning me off,
Making me feel like I want too much,
Living with you's just putting me through it all the time.

Let's live a little, for fuck's sake.

Running around, staying it all night,
Taking it all instead of taking one bite,
Living with you's just putting me through it all the time.

Let's make an efffort at something. Anything. Let's get trashed and do something radical just for the hell of it. Peaks and troughs, peaks and troughs. 

Just as I thought it was going alright,
I find out wrong when I thought I was right,
s'always the same, it's just a shame, that's all.  

Let's do something crazy. Let's do something amazing. Let's break the routine.
S'always the same, it's just a shame, that's all.
 
Let's do it tomorrow. Or the day after. Or a month from now.