I really enjoyed "Welcome to the Monkey House"

I wrote this last May, pieces of it simply do not apply anymore, but I don't have the heart to edit my old self out, my younger self should still have a voice--her voice was just as true. 

I am no good at this, trust me. 

I will not cuddle with you when I have the chance, so few chances as we are all moving so quickly now. 

I will not hug you goodbye; I can't stand what it means.

I will not tell you I love you even if it is true every second of every day and even if I feel in my fingertips that soon (everything seems soon, now) the days will stop for you or I and therefore all will stop for you and me. 

I cannot bear the weight of my own emotions, I am embarrassed by them even though I preach the consequences of invulnerability. I know if I showed you how I felt it would only make you feel good, or, well, at least connected, which is good. 

Alas, that is not me, not yet. Hypocrisy, hah! Be vulnerable! I scream, at everyone, but then you touch me comfortingly and I recoil for no lack of trust.

I begin by establishing the vast space between myself and those I love most. I finish by griping of being lonely. 

Scatter the flowers now – – – 

I will not let myself live–I think, anyway. I cannot tell if I am preventing myself from living or grieving and am perplexed as to how I've let myself fall victim to such a dichotomy. 

Lately, (a grand lately, spanning months) I have mourned many pasts. One such past being the moment and the moments (encompassing days) right after my mother died. 

Anticipation, over; and suffering with it. I said "that's good" when I walked into the room and I meant it, that is what she had wanted. It was so good for all of it was pure and raw and unhindered, unquestioned. 

You cry and you cry and you cry and nobody asks you what is wrong, not even yourself. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned.

You sit and sit and sit with books or friends or movies or thoughts and nobody asks you when you will start moving again, not even yourself. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned. 

You take five steps outside, you go out to eat, you manage to sleep and everybody congratulates you, especially yourself. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned. 

You do not feel guilty for any of it, especially not the sad, sluggish, angry parts. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned. 

Perhaps I became addicted to it. I miss it. Her, more than then, but of the postmortem, I miss it. 

I find solace when people tell me they miss her, when they cry, when they tell me they are having a hard time... I feel guilty for that. 

It is all complicated now. I don't talk about it much anymore, or cry near folks, or feel okay sitting around because it has been seven months and dear lord, I used to think seven months was a long time.

Enter a cave now? – – –

The whole thing is polluted with time. 

I just observe while everyone moves along with the time, I know they are!

You are moving to Africa, you are conducting research, you are creating a feature-length screen-play, you are writing new songs, you are planting and harvesting, you are going to China, Germany, you are fostering new relationships, you are practically immobile but still working on projects to better the community, you are moving... fucking moving all the time...

creating a life while I cling to one that will never revive. I envy it all, that forward thrust, it reminds me that I should get up. I peer proudly yet jealously at those who move forward and still if I feel time tugging at me I resist with all my might. Truly, I only feel capable of approaching life maybe 2, 3 days a week, a step up from D-day, but damn, so slow. 

"You just have to keep moving" my mom always said when my heart was sick. 

I know how very right she is, I see how well it works for others. Others with worse ails than I, creating creating creating such great things because of it. 

Fuck, I must be weak. 

I am wary of myself. I don't trust that any of this is normal; really I'm just lazy. 

Ex. I gave myself one main task to do in the 2.5 weeks I was in the stable town I sometimes call home and did not even begin it. 

I wish I were someone else. No one in particular, but not me. 

My life is grand, comparatively. It is my desire to whine about it still that makes me wish for a different conscious soul. Maybe that one wouldn't squander the gifts. 

Backwards and forwards I am my own worst enemy. 

Also, I can't sleep much anymore, wtf is that?!