My-brain-is-the-machine

When ppl r like “i’m glad the whole record isnt gonna sound like Y&M” like honestly???????me too :/ don’t thing my fuckin Brain machine could handle 10 straight up BANGERS back to back condensed into one album

Spring Cleaning Isn't For Brains

_______________________________________

My mind is not a machine.
If I could simply drive it into a car wash
have it scrubbed clean of its dirt
and flaws
believe you me; I would.
If I could re-paint my mind to remove the scratches that litter it,
I’d paint it yellow.
I’d paint it with happy thoughts,
with happy memories,
with hugs.
But a deep black would always be underneath.
You may not notice it,
but everytime I sit into it,
the black interior would swallow me,
a black hole that there is no escape from.
I could remove the old battered engine,
filled with angry hurtful words,
accumulated poison,
and replace it with brand new,
shiney sliver,
reflecting happiness bright enough to blind me,
but it would still cut out.
I will still stall without warning,
as the radio blasts my eardrums with happy happy happy love and hope,
the car will jerk and the airbags will deploy.
A slap in the face from reality itself.
No.
A slap in the face from my own reality.
A reality that doesn’t really exist,
one where even though I am the creator,
I am never the hero,
forever the sad background character,
‘Girl #4 In Lunchroom’
(even though she’s not eating because her nerves won’t allow it).
But I still drive into the car wash.
The spinning cleaners begin to close in
and their insidious whispers grow louder.
Water blocks my escape routes,
the soap coats any source of sunlight,
making everything dark
dark
darker
darkest.
My stubby nails digging into my palms remind me that the sun is still there
it hasn’t fallen
just a few more seconds and it will be safe again
just trust me
it’s just beyond this darkness
just beyond this fear
just beyond this suffocation
keep breathing, why aren’t you breathing?
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
No, that’s not how it works, is it?
Exhale.
Clench a fist.
Clench the other.
It’s still dark.
The chemicals create pictures on the glass,
swirls and dots and blobs,
hypnotising me until I close my eyes,
but the water still escapes and now my face is wet.
I need to get out.
No you don’t.
I clench my fits sixty-five,
sixty-six times,
it’s hurting.
The cleaners get closer still
and my chest tightens with them.
But then they come to a halt.
The sun returns and even though it burns my red eyes,
I have never been more thankful to feel.

_________________________________________


- “Spring Cleaning Isn’t For Brains” - poem by @wearyneutral (me)

Late Blizcat.

At this point, drawing Bliz is the only thing that keeps me from having panic attacks. I’ll work on the Cyber Log when I feel better. There is so much going on and I feel like I’m suffocating. I wish I could shut my brain off like a machine so I don’t have to think about bad things. 

  • Me: maybe i should try and catch up on my Classpect Analysis
  • Inbox: 90 unanswered messages
  • My brain: analysis machine broke
  • Me: :,)
Lunchtime thinks

- the weird/terrifying driving event ingrained immediately and every time I get to speed on the highway, the panic begins to roll through my body. Brains are powerful, complex meat machines. Use them for good, please.

- amen for therapy. Toolkit in place, and I’m happy to know that pushing myself to continue highway driving instead of finding an alternate route makes it more likely I can rewrite whatever the hell happened in there.

- this whole fuck positivity thing I keep seeing in many forms is so my jam. Yeah, I get it that it’s good to aim for a positive and happy existence. I believe the only way to that is by facing and working through the dumpster fire that is most days on earth.

- trying to find some space inside me that will accommodate my feelings of extreme loneliness without letting it shipwreck me is one such thing that one could consider a roadblock to happiness. It’s possible to feel that and one second later say out loud that the idea of sharing my space and life with another fucking man makes me want to climb a cell phone tower and dive off head first. Hearts are also complex.

- that said, I think five months without any physical expression of love and/or desire is quite enough, thank you very much.