Sick and Tired of being Sick and Tired.

It has been a couple weeks since I’ve been able to keep food down.

It has been 2 bottles of Advil since my headaches got worse.

It has been 3 EKGs, 1 EchoCardiogram, 3 Blood Tests, 2 Gastrointestinal Specialists and 1 Chiropractor and I am still in the dark.

I am sick. And tired. Most of all, I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I hate waking up feeling like I just laid down. I hate choosing my food based on how quickly it takes my stomach to reject it. I hate feeling like a 90 year old when I do my best to climb stairs. I hate it when lights are too bright, and driving at night feels like a frackin lobotomy. I hate the dizzy spells, the shakes, the cold sweats, the fatigue, the soreness, the shortness of breath, the coughing, the chest pains, and the fog. That dang, all encompassing, motivation burying fog.

I hate pretending I’m alright, because everyone else has a schedule to keep. 

It’s hard to have time for an actual answer to “how are you doing?”

Bah humbug. Something sarcastic. Witty insult. Blurp.

Today I started a 1 month cleanse. An actual, non-starvation cleanse. Not like a celery juice and you can smell chicken for a month cleanse. That’s called poverty. I mean a spend a lot of money on a specific list of organic fruits and veggies cleanse. I’ve been pretty much eating almost food for my entire life, with the exceptions of some meals cooked by health conscious others (you know who you are). So, 24 years later, my body has officially taken the stance of “THIS IS NOT FOOD”. Even with the fake produce at Wal Mart and the low-fat-but-turns-instantly-into-sugar whole grain bread from Savemart.

My body is a temple. A pretentious, vegan-esque, better then the industrial revolution temple.

Anyways, I’m starting to listen to it before it burns completely to the ground. Wish me luck, and if you have any advice, resources, or suggestions, I’ve been pretty voluntarily ignorant about food my whole life so, go for it. I’m ready to learn.

dont read too much into this, or at all actually

honesty means that there is a level of exhaustive preparation every morning that goes into making a me that looks like me

or at least the me I used to be, before I was the me that I came to be 

(the me I don’t let you see)

honesty means my eyes are less familiar with the backs of their lids then they are with the whites of the ceiling that looms down over the bed that I sleep in

this body that aches all day from chronic-whateverness demands a rest that lives only in the dreams that I stopped having during adolescence

honesty means that I am addicted to niceness because it fills my veins with the drug of you thinking I’m something better then the skin I’m in

it means when I finally break, you wont remember the long stares or cold glares or antisocial neurotic sociopathic anxious behavior because I helped you move in

see, I’m a good kid

honesty means I spend an alarming amount of energy trying to figure you out, and whether or not I can trust you or if I think you might kill me

I’ve spent too many nights by the window talking to myself because that guy at the starbucks left at the same time as me

honesty means that food tastes like ashes in my mouth, and since I’m already consistently dehydrated vomit is actually a welcome relief to the dryness

the thought of my stomach ruining garbage inside of me has been enough to make me dry heave in the middle of traffic

honesty means I probably like what the smoke will do to me a little more than I do the nicotine

although working in an office with two flights of stairs makes it hard to make it outside to kill myself slowly (mostly)

honesty means I snap like a jazz musician with no music when I am uncomfortable because it brings your attention to my hands and away from my eyes

or because it makes me invisible, still testing that theory.

honesty means the curtain closed because of who I thought I was, not because of what I thought I had done

A man covered in flames can set even the purist angel on fire if he doesn’t drown himself at once

right?

honesty means I hate being honest, I’d rather lie to both you and myself and keep staring at my hand until I’ve convinced myself it has stopped shaking.

how I wish it would stop shaking

Buzzing.

Preface: Yesterday I yelled at God because it was windy.

GOD. You are a holy, benevolent being of righteousness

I. Am a scoundrel with the potential to cease to exist with one fly-swatter hit

But still, even with the knowledge that you are the creator of all things seen and unseen, the Gospel, and the details in between, I spend most of my days screaming.

Which I’m sure while you’re on your throne in a heavenly realm surrounded by Angels who YOU made to tell you of your infinite glory... 

It probably just sounds like buzzing.

You built the house, and the kitchen I am in. 

You baked the food, that smell that brought me in.

I am the fly who’s defiling your house 

seeking the MADE more then the MAKER because tangible has more clout.

That bread your slicing becomes so enticing that my vision blurs and my focus turns 

to that lovely loaf with, what smells like, bananas baked into it? 

C’mon God, you know that’s my favorite.

With that smell in the air, I fly-   blind, and land on whats not mine.

I lose sight of who baked it. Who put it in the stove and made it.

The Holy Chef who’s hands created it.

I lose sight, until that bread crumbles when the Creators blade hits 

An earthquake the size of a loaf of bread feels cataclysmic

And it sends me into the air, buzzing with resistance

But you, oh Master and Provider, gently swat me away- causing me to fly higher.

And from this new height, closer to your eyes

I can look down and see that the bread wasn’t mine.

I was fooled by my senses, controlled by what my flesh said.

I smelt the desire of what could be mine and it caused me to fly lower to just get a slice.

I flew so close to your blade that I felt the ground shake- 

but I wasn’t supposed to be there eating that bread anyways.

It was your hand that came so close and stirred the wind around me

Causing me to fly closer to you, higher, where I could see

Now, l realize that you’re slicing the ground where I was just standing.

Oh my God. You saved me.

Now maybe I’ll stop buzzing.

R&R

There was

There was

There was

A Moment Split. A Moment Fractured.

The Halves Of That Moment Run In Separate Directions

One Half Runs Right, Solidified In Its Correctness

One Half Runs Left, Wrong, In Its Brokenness.

The variant degrees of separation are extreme

The body, made of flesh, leans.

Leans. 

(to be read: screams)

Wrong becomes left 

becomes straight 

becomes forward

becomes behind 

becomes past

becomes us

We have become that moment we have left.

Right?

there is

there is

there is

an annoying sensation of numbness in my right leg

these swimming lessons are becoming monotonous

and i have the distinct feeling that i’m not floating

i’m drowning

it’s becoming easier and easier to fall asleep in this pool

in this house shaped, me shaped, life shaped pool

there Will be

there Will be

there Will be

a.forced.smile

an.awkward.glance

a.knowing.deflection

will.power

try.to.remember

try.to.remember

try.to.remember

a.decisive.joy

an.indefinite.silence

an.insoluble.ache

a.decision

a.decision

a.decision

Happiness, shaped like something unfamiliar.

Safety, in a strangers embrace.

Touch, from skin of a different temperature.

And the ability to be okay with not knowing

(while, in fact, knowing what there is to not know)

  There was, there is, there Will be:

Rivers. And Roads.

Oh, and swimming. A lot of swimming.

A Letter to Thomas.

*NOTE: The writing below may lead people to believe that I am sad, haha. I want to make clear that I am not, and instead of writing this out of a very bad place know that it is the good place I am in that allows light to shed onto the misfortunate relational practices of humanity, myself included. It should be read more as a frustrated expression of a whole, and not as the secret depression of an individual. Wow, I hope that makes sense. 

Anyways. A letter to Thomas, enjoy.*

*DOUBLE NOTE: I don't know a Thomas. Kind of the point, poetically speaking.*

*TRIPLE NOTE: Sorry about all the notes.*

Dear Thomas,

We hope this letter finds you well,

and we hope it is wellness that it leaves you with,

although we highly doubt it, considering the focus.

We have a dead tree outside.

We've never seen it, but we're told about its visual torment.

Today, however, we were hoping to speak with you about movement.

(We'll get back to the tree in a moment.)

There is a certain satisfaction

in choosing the rate at which we have and/or maintain movement.

(If you choose to have it at all. Actually.)

It must be a choice.

A choice we take pride in regardless of what we believe in

because the choice of standing still is intoxicating.

[It's better to feel in control of nothing then out of control of anything.

Not everything, mind you.

Any. One. Thing.]

We say goodbye to planting lilies,

to black coffee and underground symphonies

because those things grow, and growth is uncontrollable.

Growth in and of itself is both terrifyingly independent

while maintaining a fascinatingly fragile existence based on

the precise measurements surrounding it.

It's magic. 

Black, most likely. 

And we will have none of it.

Instead, we decide it is better to stay the same and not change 

rather than change what has stayed the same

and have that same change stay.

Thought becomes riddle that turns into apathy,

which forms into regret and regret into an apple seed

that we plant but we don't have time to watch it change into an apple tree.

With fruit.

Whether or not we watch those trees bloom

from a seed to produce fruit

directly affects the seeds ability to grow and plant roots.

It will not do it if we do not see it.

Our attention is its sunlight.

And most trees whither in the darkness of our inner eyelids.

We do not watch. 

The seed does not grow.

We stand, not moving, and take pride in our control.

We take pride from our souls hospital bed

and, having never tasted the bittersweet citrus of fruit, we die.

Alone, but satisfied.

Say hello to the wife for us, Thomas.

Best Wishes-

The Movement.