Milk Chocolate

Okay - stifled.

I've got my nest of clothes from the floor onto the bed, but I am distracted. I am tired. I am checking Facebook over and over and over again and I am somewhere, buried under a mountain of apathy and diluted angst, furious. Stirring. This is the excitement and zeal I felt earlier, but something grey and dull and heavy has it's hands around my throat and I am limp on the floor, losing consciousness. Not for good. The oppression only visits, but I am absolutely sick of it's doing so.

I feel very... angry.

I can hear my mother's voice saying that this is good - the anger's fire is what burns up all of the cobwebs, the stops, the blocks, the barriers. It is Durga's flame that courses through you, incinerating all that is unnecessary and inhibiting. I could murder this plight. I am so absolutely furious at this force within myself that suppresses, mocks, cajoles me into sickly sweet assention, concession. I lay my body down under it's weight and flick through distractions, small morsels on the too-bright melatonin-inhibiting light from my little phone.

What is this bullshit? What is this emaciation in my creative life? I am starving, I am weak, I am pale, I am blue under the eyes and fighting for breath with my small, dry, shriveled lungs.

Where is the smell of the ocean? Where is the paint on my hands? Why are my lips not raw from kissing the earth and it's dirt and it's people? Why am I so soft, when the soles of my feet should be calloused and my arms and legs and core sinewy and able? The sun should be soaked into my skin. My voice should be loud and moist and clear and rising and falling in the velvety night. It should sound like red wine. I should be writing until I fall asleep at my desk, singing until kisses move over my mouth like the tide on the sand, halting the sound. I should be running through this evening, smelling the world and coming home to fall into a heavy sleep, dirt still on my hands and feet.

What is this cycle, this pattern I have created? Why am I so estranged from my mother nature, from the song of my soul? I fight through these reeds to get to her, but it is so hard, consuming is so hard, I am force fed, I am told I am what I am not and I believe them because if I don't, I am punished. I wear a muzzle and a collar and I am servile. I will not break from being so until I actually don't care what others have to say about my body. If I am attractive or not, if I smile enough, if my hair looks a certain way. I will not be unrestrained until I know where to find my happiness instead of looking for it in stores where people are paid money to help me give them my money so they can pay the people to help me get my money again.

I cannot. I cannot.

I am nauseated. My mother, she would say this is good. Barf it up, she would say. Get it out - it's only the world. You are only barfing up the world, so heave away. Heave and choke and sputter and spit and weep - it is only the world. But once you are empty, you will be free.

The real world, your mother nature, your writing, your beauty, your song - it will all come to you. You must act as a vessel. Stop trying to build, to accumulate the right receptors for what you are trying to be, what you are trying to be, what you are trying to be. What are you trying to be?

Barf up the world. For once you are a vessel, it will come into you.