Stream of conscious madness

I’m tired of going snap a mouse trap surrounding the room with no gaps to maneuver around them. One false move and they’re all sent flying shut the words infused in the metal wires clamping down to shoot the sting beneath skin and cause words of anger and pain to come flying back at me like poisoned darts. There are booby traps all over this metaphor of booby traps.

No commas or pauses just continuous flow of lexemes (lovely word for word don’t you think?) as they enter circulate from mind to neck to shoulders down arms through fingers onto keyboard onto text that doesn’t appear fast enough for the torrent that just keeps on coming. Make no sense? Of course not. Nothing makes any sense until you stop untangle put together all nice and proper follow the rules set to make sense of a mind that truly has none at all in its most primitive form. They call you insane if you don’t follow those rules. I’ve been calling myself insane all my life but I’m as far from a rebel as this galaxy is from the next. Light years and light years but like the scientists of astronomy and studiers and explorers of space I want to get there even though the chances are one in those billions of light years. But hey at least there’s that one.

Where was I? Oh yes booby traps of vicious cycles that loop the loop and no one knows how to stop it because I started it and I don’t know either. I think the only way is to clamp my jaws shut with the intensity of one going through an epileptic seizure swallow down rage that really has no reason to be there in the first place so what am I doing who am I becoming what’s going on and why am I losing control I’ve fought so hard so many years to gain? No that work will not be in vain. I will get it back because it can’t go on like this I can’t be victim and perpetrator all at once I don’t want to be either so why are they opposites can there only be those two options do it or get it done to you? Then I’d rather be victim to be honest since I’m no good with guilt but I’m pretty good at handling pain. It’s unhealthy but hey it works doesn’t it except for times like these when domination over my own human nature gets a bit too difficult to obtain. It’ll happen it’ll happen I just need more time. Till then I’m sorry be patient thank you for putting up with me so long I’ll learn I promise I’ll learn to stop being such a bitch when it gets too much. I’ll expand the container feelings like that are kept in and redesign the lid so it’s much more airtight and lasts far longer I promise. I’m really really sorry I don’t mean it or rather I do but you were never supposed to know that or rather I don’t really it simply seems to be enhanced making me worse than the situation entails whatever the situation that happens to trigger me at the time is. I’m sorry.

I’m always sorry and I always mean it and you’d think I’d get tired of feeling so reprehensible but I seem to feel the need to beg pardon for every consequence of my existence and every breath that robs someone else of oxygen because it went into me instead. Breathe I’m sorry Breathe I’m sorry Breathe I’m so sorry I can’t help it. I’m too scared to die because I know exactly where I’m headed. Purgatory. Funny thing is while I know I’ll scream in agony that I also know I’ll still feel deserving of every lick of flame because this guilt in this life my life is so great there is no doubt it will carry with my soul when my heart stops beating.

I’m sorry for being like this I’m sorry for being like this I’m sorry for being me and if I could put that word in front of every other stupid word in this fucked up post without making it sound even more fucked up and hard to read I swear I would but please know my heart is making all the apologies all the time with every pulse every rush of blood through my undeserving veins arteries and capillaries.

I’m sorry.

(I don’t like who I am when I’m with you.)

You bring out the some of the crappiest parts of me and worst of all I can’t seem to help it when I’m around you which makes you resent me all the more because with anyone else it’s easy to bite back instead of fight back. I’m sorry for that I know it isn’t fair I really do know. I’m trying. I’ll try harder I promise.

(I don’t like who I am ever.)

(I don’t seem to be taking this very well.)

It must not agree with me. Maybe I’m allergic. Or intolerant. There is a difference, you know. Maybe I should just surrender to it and let it swallow me whole. The best way out is through, as the mysterious “they” say.

(Who are “they”? Hey! Can you give me the answers? Where can I find you?)

Really, though? Who has the energy for it? How are we supposed to get through over and over and over and over and… Well. You get the idea. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Or is it just me? Maybe. Maybe it is and I’m just weak. No surprise there, but I seemed to get on fine so far. I made it so far. So why now?

(Can’t I just lay here among the pillars holding me up?)

They’re cracking. I can see that, yes. There, and there, and there, too. Hmmm. Seem to be growing bigger. I can hear things inside them. They’re… No. I can’t tell. It’s too tumultuous. Muffled, but no less chaotic, no less… loud. I can see thin hands no less fierce for their look of frailty reaching out. Biding their time.

(I don’t want to look. They scare me.They’re waiting. Waiting to escape. Can’t I just lay here and not move? If I don’t move, they won’t be able to get out… Can I, please?)

Oh no. I can’t breathe again. It’s happening again. It’s been happening a lot. My lungs will contract again. I’ll choke in my effort to get oxygen into them again. My heart will beat unpleasantly faster again. My throat.. Oh god, what’s in there? Knives? Must be. In my core, too. Somewhere that’s not my gut, but not my heart, but everywhere at once. Knives. Daggers, sabers, scythes, short swords, long swords.

(Inhale. Exhale. Come on now, it’ll pass soon. Focus. Breathe. No. Don’t sob. Tears go back. BACK. There we go. It’s over.)

I know. I know you’re waiting inside me. I know you want to explode. I know you’re getting impatient. I don’t care. You won’t. I won’t let you. I won’t let you, you hear? You can destroy me if you want. But until you make very clear what will happen if I set you free, I will not. I will not risk you destroying everything dear to me. Because I know that’s what you may well do. Tear everything apart without a care. Go on a rampage.

(Then who will be left to clean up the mess? Make amends? Pick up the shattered pieces of not just myself, but everyone caught in the blast? No. You will never be free.)

Growl all you want. Make your threats. I will not break. I may be wavering now, may be growing a bit tired, but I will not break. You can’t make me. I won’t let you. I won’t let me.

(I’ll get my strength back. You’ll see… I won’t let you hurt them. They’ve done nothing to you. They don’t deserve it. I just need a little time… That’s all. Just a little time…)

You’re rattling your chains. I can hear them. You’re trying to set yourself and your minions free. I see them. I see you. Don’t you see? You can’t. Never. Ever.

(You’ll never be free. Even if it means that nor will I.)