I hate that when I sit to write my heart out, I almost reach a point in my life where I could tell someone something, that maybe for once I could express my emotions coherently, that maybe it's worth listening to, or writing, or thinking.
Yet nearly every single moment I reach my fingers out to the keys, I lose everything. My mind wipes its grubby paws and swiftly shoves the boxes of thought back into the attic. Not those, it grumbles, no one can see those.
So I'm asking myself, pleading to myself, to please stop shoving my boxes away; don't tape them up this time. They might be better served in another room, out in the open, where we can catalog together what's ailing. Have you never considered the broken feelings and ideas could be repaired? Why do you insist on believing if they ruminate long enough, they'll patch up on their own?
I'm not meant to be a bandit of my own mind, but I demand intervention. I'll yank these boxes from you. What's that? They'll fall apart if I pull them away?
My words are absolute drivel.
I used to write poems as a way around my mental guards. If I lied and told them that it's just art, it was fine. Let people read it without knowing me; that way, they'd never know what I truly meant. Secure and foolproof. Except, I still know. I dance around my older writings and I feel horrified, horrified that something so awful felt can be masked so beautifully.
So stop it.
Poems aren't supposed to be two-faced.
I'm not supposed to lie like this.
I used to lucid dream. As a child, I invented a dream world for myself, a little town, a staircase, and a big wall. For the longest time, I stayed within the wall. That was my extent of a lucid dream, just pressing screens on the wall that let me dream of something else. Harmless.
Why a wall? What possessed a child to hide in a wall and call it a dream?
My town was built years later. It was quiet but mishappen. I found out I was the mayor of the town, and it had been abandoned for years (apparently no one informed me I was the mayor.) Silly, but the town was falling apart. Citizens looked at me with disdain.
I ask myself, why would I willingly create a town to spawn, and allow its characters to feel so bitter towards me?
I haven't lucid dreamed in about a year and a half, maybe two. I can't.
I had made a story for myself, that I could be a wizard (more so, a witch). I would be a dream wizard, I stated. I crafted worlds, mentors, and challenges. The wall became my fort. Except, the last time I lucid dreamed I walked across my mentor, dead, with his corpse sprawled out in front of me; I thought I would feel sad. I didn't; with the world I created falling apart, surely I could fix it, this was my mind, my creation. I should've revived him, but I didn't. I couldn't. I looked down at the dark room and at this imaginary man and I knew I lost something about myself.
I had designated his character as the keeper of the door.
The door? The door to my mind. No outsiders, no tresspassers. I had thought that to be funny, witty even. No one can pass him, no one. Except I never considered the possibility of death.
I've had nightmares ever since, for the first time in my life. I'm losing control somehow. Something broke inside me and it's got to be in one of those boxes.
It has to be.
I'm tired of reaching back and finding that I'm too tired to try. Where is your confidence, your perseverance? Why are you so complacent and lifeless?
Put the boxes back, then, maybe I'm not ready for them.