Short Strings of Nothings

Attachment issues I have it bothers me sometimes like when I’m trying to detach from the point of attachment; it’s not that easy.

Anxiety stops when collecting becomes persistent given a way-to-do to sublimate reality it seems so damn easy picking apart the details in form and function the evolutionary ties that bind humanity to a single something devised pick it apart pick it apart this is what I do. Overanalyze the means and reasons behind historic lies I fathom interweave into congruent groups—categories that I might be able to make sense of things not bound to reality. A reality that seems absurd when you think about all the inconsistencies your actions a string of events that cascade into paranoia, so stop this, make do with the counting the collecting, the pick it apart pick it apart. Anxiety this anxiety never stops.

Breathing never works, not for me.

Next time, try calling my name a few more times, chant it, solicit lies. Tell me my dog died. Do something. Wake me up, I’m not dead, I’m not sleeping; I’m alive.

Now particularly, in a non-descriptive mood my head throbs and pulsates from a lack of sleep. I get wary sometimes.

And do this thing where I palm the noise in the back of my head because situations tend to get messy, people reckless and the proceeding events not to my liking, so I do this to maintain my sanity not because I’m mean or obnoxious, but because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

I call it my shut-the-fuck-up moment.

And no one ever seems to pull me out. No one. Not ever.