sanity log x

I'm avoiding things again. There's a wall within me that emerges from the closed, dark room behind my lungs, blocking the neurotransmissions that prompt me to do any homework at all. I know that this isn’t a reaction to any distaste for boredom, because I'm genuinely excited for this psychology class. And quite honestly, reading about psychology appeals more to me than anything Tumblr has to offer at this hour. I hunger for solid knowledge, facts and figures that can fuel my observations. I want to feel the satisfying whisper of pencil against paper, the reaffirming squeal of hot pink highlighter against pencil. 

The good news is that I'm prismatic again. A long post-breakdown sleep followed by an amazing day with friends sparked my zest for life again. I never knew how to respond when I was asked if I lost interest in things and activities I used to enjoy. I don't think I could ever genuinely answer, "yes" to that question, but in retrospect, I can notice a dampening of my interests. An overflow of creative urges is the norm for me, and I haven't felt that in a while.

But I think the homework avoidance is more out of habit, like psychological muscle memory. I think that my subconscious consistently used to jumble my concentration in an effort to get me to face the truth of my emotions. My subconscious recognized that I had something much more important than work to take on. In all of its efforts to refocus my attention, I spent all of my energy trying to avoid that focus, immersing myself in low-intensity internet browsing instead of taking a simple fucking moment to look at myself. To ask for help.

I've fortunately passed that benchmark. Recognition is the most difficult battle in the war, but there are many, many battles. I have to somehow destroy the anxiety I associate with homework. I have to train my brain to focus on the present, because today, that's what I need. That's enough.

And I've come to many realizations lately, mostly fueled by my dreams. So many useful realizations, in fact, that today, I thought to myself, "WOW!!! I give myself the best advice in my dreams! They're exactly tailored to my deepest feelings, fears, hopes, and anxieties. It's better than a counselor!"

Hold up, Ali G.

Did you just (kinda) figure out the essential benefit of sleeping?!!?!?!?!??!?!?!?

And the invaluable reason for dreaming?!?!?!?!??!?!

That it prepares you for the day/days to come?!?!?!?!??!

That you can't just skip out on that, because you will be physically and emotionally unready as a result?!??!?!?!

That you are a human being, and that staying up doesn't make you a demigod?!??!?! That it doesn't make you stronger, doesn't prove anything at all?!?!??! That taking a moment (6 or more hours, preferably) of the deepest "me time" known to science is something you not only deserve, but require!??!??!??!?!?!?!?!?!

WWWHHHHHAAAAAOOOOOOHHHHHHHHTTTTTHHHHHHEEEERRRREEEE

Do I taste a breakthrough?

xxxxxxxxxx

I've been having a lot of ultra-clear, high-definition, super useful dreams lately. They seem to come in clean episodes. Maybe it's my mind mirroring the 40-minute blocks of Breaking Bad I down on a regular basis. Maybe I'm too clever for my own good.

One lesson I've learned from them is that I not only crave, but need closeness more than anything. I had a series of dreams in which I either reconnected with past crushes or talked to current crushes, and the time we spent together was extremely brief, but honest and meaningful. There was no screen of superficiality. Just brief, absolutely honest conversation. One ended with an honest smile and a genuine wave of "’til next time," which opened the door to further communication between us. One progressed to hand-holding, walking together actually cheek-to-cheek, feeling each other's warm, energy mingling, bodies close. The third resulted in a public display of closeness, but there was no anxiety surrounding it. We exchanged a few words, but mostly had our bodies close, not looking directly at each other, but tangled in an embrace with our faces against each other, close enough to kiss, but not kissing. None of the dream encounters I had with these boys were sexual, or even romantic; they were mostly honest and spiritually powerful. What I need, and what I crave, is closeness like this--not just with crushes, but friends, potential friends, everyone I care about. Giving all of myself to someone can be done in small but meaningful actions, and it's always worth it. I could live off of that feeling alone.

So, friends and stalkers, here's my declaration: at the risk of rejection, I am willing to get close to people. That's step one, always. Romance comes in its own time. Closeness is the seed of all social meaning in life.

I better sleep before this entire post becomes hypocritical.

Love forever,
Ali

april was an existentialist

April was an existentialist. She only believed in moments she could taste with her tongue outstretched, and with that, she deemed her story less important than the others, especially that of May. April and May could have easily been sisters. When they laughed, the sounds wove together, and when they cried, daffodils found the strength to get out of bed in the morning. In the dark, you could barely tell them apart.

Yet everything was more saturated about May. She was brimming with consequence. Even her biology reflected this, her full body barely losing in a constant, precarious quarrel with her clothes. Her eyes carried the innocence and wisdom of sea glass, only made more beautiful by rogue tides. A guy could bask in her forever.

April was considered beautiful, but in an objective kind of way. Her clothes never seemed to fit quite right, either restricting her breath or swallowing her shape. Her eyes were often bright, but unstable, flitting from amber to dirt. You'd want to place April behind glass. You'd want to feature her under the gloss of a fashion magazine. You'd want to keep April at a safe distance. You'd want to fuck her, but only in your mind.

Many are colder than April, yet poets always consider her the cruelest. Maybe it's the way she warms your skin in one breath and leaves you frostbitten in the next. Maybe it's the way her harsh breezes overpower her subtle sunshine. Maybe it's that she's impossible to forecast, always one arm's reach out of your grasp. Maybe she's afraid of herself.