Sometimes I like to sit quietly as I feel all the words I can’t express thrum behind my eyes. I want to ask a person a thousand questions so that I may better understand them, but I fall to pieces inside myself before I even begin.

I wear my heart and soul on my skin as tattoos that I have designed and personally inked into my flesh except the two which I couldn’t reach but I still designed. I wear bright colors when I’m happy and blacks and grays when I’m sad.  I simply try to be who I am when I am. Even in the best of times, I trail off, falter, and wonder how in the world I ended up here.

Thoughts burn me.  Ideas crash through my consciousness wave after wave and I breathe in, trying to stay grounded as the morning slips into the afternoon and nightfall beckons shortly before sliding back to morning.  I sit still as I wait for the morning to stay where it should and the afternoon to hold steady and evening to not rush itself in the mindscape.

I get lost in the racket and cacophony of daily life.  Voices blend together until they’re simply a background hum, indistinguishable from the thousands upon thousands of tiny constant pieces of information my eyes take in and demand my brain make sense of.  Smells become nauseating, my gut clenches and churns sympathetically.

I am depressed.  I do not feel empowered or enlightened or any particularly strong word that begins with the letter “E” except exhausted.  Exhausted by the constant awareness.  I have bipolar disorder.  I feel too much about too much, but it’s not just emotional. Despite my physical symptoms of fibromyalgia clearing up I am still very sensitive to touch.  I find the outside world demanding.

So fortunate, so lucky. I am so very blessed to be loved and cared for by an amazing support network of wonderful individuals.  I am exhausted.  I am also struggling with deep, ingrained old fear.  I walked into a tattoo shop this week.  I didn’t expect anything, mostly it was something I needed to make myself do.  I stumbled in-eloquently through an introduction, left feeling nauseated and hating myself.

Can I call myself artist?  I haven’t drawn anything, really, in about a month.  I try and falter.  The last time I sat and attempted a study I cringed and wanted to cry.  Even writing these words feels like scraping the bottom of the bowl.  I am wearing colors again, but I do not feel like they are mine.  Perhaps that is because the colors are not mine, perhaps it is another part of myself that needs to be expressed, despite myself.

I don’t know.

What is solace?  Is solace a person?  It solace a feeling?  Is it an idea?  Can we give solace and if we can give it do we also take it?  Why do we do these things?  I have a lot of questions.

I settle into these moments of exhaustion with an old familiarity.  The thoughts I have emerge like bubbles in a swamp of thick heartache.  I don’t really know what to do with myself in these moments so for this one I am trying to write.

I write and hope.

Maybe tomorrow will make more sense when I am still. Today the stillness haunts me.


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