I wanted to go back outside and also never leave the bed again. these fits are normal for me. these spurts of energy. this was a breaking of chain. ground it, bring it down your spine and sit. rest. become a maelstrom of your own, not the tornado. watch your conjecture. get to the faces. I always tell people not to look in the mirror when they take these drugs because they will be unable to look away right away. they will inevitably see themselves deform and if they are unhappy with their body already, it is not the best place to start to pick yourself apart. especially as it becomes amorphous and takes on the superpower to morph into what you say it is. however, I looked at my face in the mirror twice already; once intensely for minutes in the ring light and upstairs, here, briefly, as I reorganized the jaspers. caught in the mirror. this was grounding today.
“this is an unusual trip. there are no hallucinations.”
I noticed the brightness of my eyes; both the color, a real honey amber in sun, but also the light that came from within. I was squarely inside of myself and squarely inside of my rowhome seeing the flaws: the cheap paint scratched, the floorboards coated with cat hair always, the general illusion and my greedy landlord. I saw it better and inspired by it, could affix myself to my eyes. not changing. not structured. not a form to step into but my real eyes. my real container is not the rowhome. I still felt like dust was hurting me. this was a day before cleaning. I had planned both trips this way so I can become comfortable with any dirt reminding myself that I had done this on purpose. that I was confronting a deeper part of myself today: the iterations, the obsession, the thought patterns that looped and forced both the organization, the sweeping and the burning of the house. the burning of the whole house down. you cannot outrun this. this is ground. this where you live.
im a liar watching my men like clocks. I looked at the journal again. the journal information about sun. this brief nebulous of him but really me, not us but the relation I need. comparison. speculation and mystery. and also relating. I turn the page. in big letters I had written DONT BE A MARTYR. I saw that downstairs. too late for that.
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