my unassuming cohort of problems add nothing grandiose to my life, save for sneaky little bouts of laying motionless in bed- but it's been a while since i've been honest with others and with myself about things that have been happening.
today i happened upon old email exchanges between my dad, and another thread between my uncle and i. i first read through the emails between my dad and i- it was july 2013 and my dad stayed back home for a few days while my mother and i went ahead to india for our summer vacation. for 2013, i expected a lot more emoticons and spastic punctuation, but everything was right where they were meant to be. i used brackets and parantheses right- didn't interchange the two like how i do now, didn't use unnecessary hyphens because i have a deep seated uneasiness with full stops, didn't use commas stacked on top of another in order to seem more fulfilling in some sort of lazy, uninspired way- i didn't do this.
i didn't have the heart to read the emails between my uncle and i. even though i am wholly aware that the socially acceptable time for grieving is over, i can't help but swaddle myself with this viscous, oily grief that seems to stick to my skin no matter how hard i wash it away. i can't emulsify oil the shower, the tub, the swimming pool, the river, the pond, the lake, the vast immeasurable ocean of whatever it is i am drifting through now. it was october 22nd, and it is now five months later and i can't face the fact that he is gone and that if i were to open that specific thread between my uncle and i, i would not be able to type an email his way out of pure impulsion; the way i would if i had found a thread between an old friend and i.
the fact remains, i haven't been honest to myself, with myself, for myself, as myself.
where have i been these past few months? where have i been, really? why was i spewing out mindless filth on this poorly formatted blog when i could have been doing something else? why am i doing it now, or have i come to believe that i'm making a difference by hitting 'publish'? if i were to make this nonsensical, intangible, utterly stupid horror known, why haven't i confided anything to my friends? would they listen? are you listening now?
my sleep schedule has never been as bad as it is now. i can't say it's wholly due to the quarantine- although it might be enabling me- but perhaps, there is something else i can't quite yet figure out that won't let me sleep at night. i have logged in 18+ hours online per day during the past few weeks but i can't seem to figure out how because every time i think back on the past few hours it seems as if i've been asleep. i was asleep yesterday, the day before and every day prior- yet the purple under my eyes tells a different story, the heaviness in my head, the nausea within my core, the sluggishness of my limbs are telling me a different story. for the most part, my brain and body are in tandem but these chance instances where i would voluntarily lobotomize myself just to get a look at what the hell is going on is enough to ground me to square one.
la nausée!
today i happened upon old email exchanges between my dad, and another thread between my uncle and i. i first read through the emails between my dad and i- it was july 2013 and my dad stayed back home for a few days while my mother and i went ahead to india for our summer vacation. for 2013, i expected a lot more emoticons and spastic punctuation, but everything was right where they were meant to be. i used brackets and parantheses right- didn't interchange the two like how i do now, didn't use unnecessary hyphens because i have a deep seated uneasiness with full stops, didn't use commas stacked on top of another in order to seem more fulfilling in some sort of lazy, uninspired way- i didn't do this.
i didn't have the heart to read the emails between my uncle and i. even though i am wholly aware that the socially acceptable time for grieving is over, i can't help but swaddle myself with this viscous, oily grief that seems to stick to my skin no matter how hard i wash it away. i can't emulsify oil the shower, the tub, the swimming pool, the river, the pond, the lake, the vast immeasurable ocean of whatever it is i am drifting through now. it was october 22nd, and it is now five months later and i can't face the fact that he is gone and that if i were to open that specific thread between my uncle and i, i would not be able to type an email his way out of pure impulsion; the way i would if i had found a thread between an old friend and i.
the fact remains, i haven't been honest to myself, with myself, for myself, as myself.
where have i been these past few months? where have i been, really? why was i spewing out mindless filth on this poorly formatted blog when i could have been doing something else? why am i doing it now, or have i come to believe that i'm making a difference by hitting 'publish'? if i were to make this nonsensical, intangible, utterly stupid horror known, why haven't i confided anything to my friends? would they listen? are you listening now?
my sleep schedule has never been as bad as it is now. i can't say it's wholly due to the quarantine- although it might be enabling me- but perhaps, there is something else i can't quite yet figure out that won't let me sleep at night. i have logged in 18+ hours online per day during the past few weeks but i can't seem to figure out how because every time i think back on the past few hours it seems as if i've been asleep. i was asleep yesterday, the day before and every day prior- yet the purple under my eyes tells a different story, the heaviness in my head, the nausea within my core, the sluggishness of my limbs are telling me a different story. for the most part, my brain and body are in tandem but these chance instances where i would voluntarily lobotomize myself just to get a look at what the hell is going on is enough to ground me to square one.
la nausée!
