the same facade

on Wednesday I ride to school under overcast skies full of potential / promising rain / clouds unwilling to cry just yet. the office is empty I have worn my collared shirt for nothing but at least I made it to my desk / got out of bed to play another day. on the screens I flip between jargon and the news, both heavy with the same facade of duty: a responsibility to work and think about the world / to better comprehend my own insignificance / to reconnect with what once fuelled the heart / to remember compassion. the nurse suggests it could just be distraction. working well above her call she says there's something missing between how I am and knowing how I got here. she thinks I'm yet to process my emotions and prescribes a breakdown at my own discretion. if she were a witch she'd fix this all but she's not and she can't. I have to face the lions without divine intervention.

on air

I listen to you talk about me on the radio. silly breakfast segment in memoriam for those lost to the city that I moved to. you even use my name. the story sounds a little different in the studio. I like the way you change the plot to read the way you want. it's nice to hear your voice the way you want the world to hear it. did you want me to listen? did you know that I would? does it matter I still wonder what you really think? so much between what we say what we mean. I wear your carabiner; you keep my picture on your wall.

my window of tolerance

somewhere between the hyper and the hypo we can build a frame to water down the overwhelm. try to understand the feelings where they come from why they're here. ask yourself: how wide is my window of tolerance and what might it take to break it open let in a little more light? the window takes different shapes through the span of any given day shifting at the whim of hidden chemical agendas. I can only feign control of the panes as they change how much I can see of my own simulation. the plan is beyond my understanding I play puppet sitting at the table take directions from whichever voice outscreams the other over any given meal.

my window of tolerance never ceases to surprise, opening and closing at commands unheard from someone else. the view shrinks and expands each new aspect ratio a novelty to marvel from my front row seat to life beyond the skull. there is so much more to see.

still screaming on the floor

in my dream I’m running from the promises I've made. they show me photographs of all my different faces, each a little longer sadder worse for wear than the last. the final photo is a mirror. I scream at the monster I don’t want to recognise I throw him to the ground. he shatters into slices of the ceiling reflecting shards of sunlight still screaming on the floor. down the corridor I lock myself in my shower run the water too cold not loud enough to drown the embers the photos of the faces I have grown. rage. I scream without a sound ears to listen relief any reason to stop. someone knocking on the door. there are tasks needing tending dishes to wash to dirty again. I look for a trapdoor to only shrink the room. walls start closing ceiling lowers I think about the other ways that people spend their time beyond their cells and scheming torture for themselves. I remember being pulled by my brother tasked to take me back into the ward. he pulls me hands under arms dragging feet kicking limp he is gentle while I plead he listen to ignore the doctor’s orders let’s go home I’ll get better I promise just please don’t let them take me back. we both know that he can’t there is nothing he can do but listen to the doctors they only want to help to make things easier. I cry into his shoulder. he tells me it’s okay, this will pass, I am only ever where I’m meant to be.

the angels keep singing

the angels sing through the walls. consumers cover ears with blankets and headphones their eyes with slides or neon blue light projecting liquid crystal their minds with lunch and regret and themselves. maybe a little too early for trivia card games divine intervention. blankets work for three of five soft snoring, one quiet shaking leg over another. invisible ticking someone’s watch a little louder than sleep than breathing. the angels keep singing next door.

punchlines

and this will all become a story people ask about like a holiday or breakup as though it wasn't everything  a whole world for a moment in time that had no end until it did. I hear it all reduced to punchlines in my own voice and maybe surely because it is easier this way we can laugh about the ward the rules the characters the funny things they said. yes. so much better to laugh than think about what was and what wasn't the shapes and shadows of that world I never asked for til I dreaded leaving like a death. we are all a lot better at laughing thinking only takes us places we are better off without.

outside

outside is vast is loud is breeze on my face a return to expectation and beyond any control. variables dwarf the odds with eyes closed. I do my best to write myself into believing.