something has to come from me

eventually. that’s a hard truth. humans

cannot and are not meant to be reckless

unlimited canisters for entertainment, consumption,

taking in. being without. not within. from the outside.

something has to come from me at some point.

and it can’t just be a listing, a call-sign, a report

to duty. how odd. how familiar. this pattern of writing –

describe something, comma, then synonym, association,

allusion, assonance, building a picture, a sense, adding,

adding, like phlegm. like the headburn in my heart and the heartburn

in my head. the rote activity of noticing signs. speak along with me.



something has to come from me, lest we confirm this hunch

that there really isn’t anything. and nothing can come out. from within.

to outside, stomach lining, phlegm. they say a picture is worth a thousand

words, so I suppose I will have to work inefficiently. a curved pane of glass.

a bubble, not unlike in The Simpsons Movie. this sense that there are

things outside of the bubble that need keeping track of. this sense that

what’s inside the bubble is inaccessible, or none of your concern,

or disgusting, or acidic, like it’ll burn to the touch. an understanding that

we know the things on the outside better than the things on the inside.



they say a picture is worth a thousand words, though I’m given to

understand that a word can sum up a thousand pictures. bubbles,

panes of glass, curved shields and force-fields. what I’m talking about

is dissociation.

shame on me, perhaps, for not knowing where it comes from, nor when

it started. perhaps vaguely I can tell you that it builds up over time,

like a habit, sediments falling on sediments, thickening that wall,

that glass pane. surely I should have a process for this!

surely I should have a list of steps that cleverly unties the knot!



I can’t concretely name one emotion. not a single thing going on

within me. maybe I vaguely don’t like this heady existence?

heady in the sense that I am in my head, not that I am drunk

or horny or whatever heady actually means. sorry.

I can fall back on a psychological understanding of dissociation

as a survival strategy, I could specify the type as freeze-flight.

certainly there is something quite difficult happening that I am

running from. perhaps a convergence? many things happening at

once – school, sickness, and relationships abound.



Here’s a concrete emotion. A concrete want: I want not to engage

with this. I don’t want to delve. Creeping out from the cage of

dissociation requires motivation; it’s something I tell others all

the damn time: You have to want it. Well, I don’t. I don’t want it.

You have to want it, and I’m not feeling that want right now. It’s

not happening for me. Fucking sue me. Fucking sued!

Because you see it ^ petulance, then judgment, exasperation,

then hopelessness. Now we rehash it all. I notice that I am not

approaching this with any compassion at all, shame on me!

I have been derelict in my duty to be compassionate. Haven’t

I written that before? On and on it goes. There is a frenzy here,

a latent anger, a wild, crazed frustration of deja vu, I’ve used this

word before, I’ve written this sentence, I’ve expressed this sentiment,

on and on and on. Giving in to overwhelm and hopelessness, then

nihilism, jadedness, sadism. What if it was all so fucking bad that

you can’t even engage with it? What if you’ve used the word “engage”

already here? What if you’ve used it twice? Thrice? I’ll kill you.



Congratulations on puncturing the wall! You’ve earned yourself

a scant few tears and death-threats. Come back tomorrow!

And by the way, you’re so fucked. All of that outside stuff, that’s

still happening. And I’m not going to help you with the task of

rote notation, identification, solution, implementation, and

subsequent selection. Good fucking luck buddy!



Some outside observer, some jester claiming “care” would look at this

and doubtlessly exclaim how hard it must be to have a voice like

mine inside your head. But I am your head. I recognize the fallacy,

the excruciating splitting of identity – there are things other than me

in your head and thus I cannot be the entirety of it. I cannot be the sole

proprietor. But you’ve given it over to me. I’ve been running the show.

Good fucking luck, kid. God, you’re hopeless.



the place that contains the list of the containers of words