[2440] Thoughts
My first time posting something I wrote. It’s unformatted because I don’t know how to do it right. Or what’s the best way for more impact. Thank you for reading and commenting- Rhain
- My thinks aren’t thoughting. They are all over the place. It’s like, I’m in this huge ball pit under a dome (in a globe?) and there’s so many balls everywhere; I can’t see where it ends but I know it goes deep. An oceanic hollow. And here I am, stuck in the middle trying to stay afloat. The balls are all different sizes, different colors, different textures, different weights. They’re not just below me, trying to pull me in, but whirling all around me, trying to knock me down. Some float (we all float down here) or glide past me but others charge and whizz. Each one determined to follow its own random path, with no destination, but each with resolute determination. Can’t dodge them all. Trust me, I’ve tried.
-Each time, it’s different. Each round, with its own set of bylaws. Rules I can’t control or argue with. Is it odd that, I, at times, am forced to play and that I don’t even know what the rules are; what is the end-goal? Aren’t directives supposed to directed? Field goal with no field post. Goal kicked with no net. Runs without a home plate. Drip. I think, at some point, I used to be able to ask what the regulations and infractions were, get a rulebook, but all I get now, is silence. …Wait… was that a cackle? Drip. My punishment for not following the rules, or not winning, or rather, at least being the not not-loser, used to be fair and regulated. Slap on the wrist, smack in the face, punch to the guts, stab in the back - you know, honorable. Morality maintained and monitored. Drip. However, now, there seems to be no limits. When did that happen? Am I the lost lostest losering loser now? Unknowingly, my soul has crossed the threshold of the sane. The game masters have been silenced. The referees have dissolved. The chair umpires have fallen. Arbitration has been nullified and the limits of humanity have slowly dissipated. Drip, drip. Chinese water torture. Drip, drip. Rack him. Turn the wheel. Roast this bull, he is too brazen. Drip, drip. Push him, poke him, prod him, punish him. Make him pay. Drip, drip. Hold him down. Drip. Rape him. Drip. Cover him. Drip. Drown him. Drip. No! Holes! Barred! Drip, drip, drip.
-Each time, though, it starts the same. At the scratch-line: on-your-mark, get set, bang. On the springboard: pit ball abyss, whistle, dive. These balls are overwhelming on a good day. The air is lighter. Do I hear birds chirping? Wait…did one of them just cackle? Drip. The fog is thinner these days; the visibility index reads “Not Fatal, Probably”. Advective waves creep and rolls in, moving the balls like wisps, leaving tendrils to trace. Tresses slowly swirls and wraps around you, as you follow the balls that glow so enticingly. Which tantalizing ball will Cupid target to trance you next? Which one will get you first? Too late! Because the tendril snake that’s coiled around your neck now is already starting to constrict. The energy crackling and creeping into that ball of light that you followed, is bubbling to strike. The slow slither of suffocation or burning blast of ball lightning? And you thought this was a good day. Tricked again. “Wait… what is it? It’s so…pretty… I, I’m feeling happy, which is a big deal… for me…I want to touch it…ohh.. hey come back, come on back here, I’m gonna getchya, I’m gonna get you!…I’m gonna getchya, I’m gonna swim with you…I’m gonna get ya, I’m gonna be your best friend!…drip… good feelings gone.” *silent thunder* drip… Other days, the balls are bees in a disturbed beehive, stingers out, swarm ready. Wait, do they have hive mind? Are they a corrupted, coalesced collective conscious? If they were, would that mean that I have a normal sane mind, right? Drip, drip. Not mine, never my mind, never mind. Then, on worst days- No!!! You can’t say worst, they can always make it more “delightful” for you next time, silly you. Ok, Ok. Sorry. Please don’t do that. So, on worser, but not the worst, days, there would be so many of them in play. I want a flag thrown?!! Too many men penalty, right? It exists right? …Referee? …Dissolved, silly you, don’t you remember? Drip. Mama said Knock you out. Eye of the Tiger… We will, we will, rock you. Anthems, not for me, fight songs for them - against me. Too many come to play on the worser days. Global warming is real; the flood gates open, polar caps melt, ocean levels rise. Is it going to be waterspout wars or tsunami survival today? Either way, any day, every day, I must play. I have to kneel and race I have to hurdle and jump. Hobson, take the wheel! The die is cast and the ball pit is buzzing. Drip, drip. What type of day, what game mode, what evil lurks within, what is it this time? Lawful good or chaotic evil? Doesn’t matter, oscillation is canon now and I’m riding the pendulum, first class. Battle time. Know thy self, know thy enemy. But…I have no idea who the hell I am anymore, just that my enemy has to be them…maybe. And Them knows them and me so I’m fucked; thanks, so much, Sunny Z! I!… Drip. You can make it, just think, silly you. OK, so what’s the plan? I have to strategize. I have to make it through. I have to run different plays. I have to win this time. Top-spin, flat, or slice? Lob or drop? ..or drip…Let’s play balls verses balls. Fastball, curveball, knuckleball, or screwball? Which one? Hold up. Am I pitcher, batter, AND catcher?! Drip. Or is it thinks against thinks today? Queens Gambit or Kings Indian Attack? Choices, choices. What?! Check-mated - the move RIGHT after my opening one… how? What’s the point of having choices if they can’t be choiced. Bring me a players handbook, silly you. This isn’t helping me though, nothing is being fixed for me. But, every match is fixed just for you silly! Drip… and cackle…
-Sometimes, all I can do is hold on to a big soft one, curl up, and cling to it while reflecting my mistakes, downfalls, and guilt. I let it simmer and then, in a guise of comfort, it confronts. So similar, while I’m so distraught, they look the same. They trick me again. It’s too late. I am too far gone. Tears start to accumulate, then, endlessly, they seep into it, until weight of it all takes me down, pushing me further in. Why am I holding on to it tighter? It just takes me deeper, pulling me under. I. Can’t. Breathe. …Drip. Drip.
-Then again, sometimes, it’s a rerun round. Mind-melding Groundhog Day. Take two. Take four. Take seven, any luck? Take eight, nine. Oh no, thirteen! Sisyphus, teach me how you are doing this dammit. Take 17, 39, 43. Take 666? Replays of pasts. The coulda, woulda, shoulda’s. Scenes of unachieved dreams. Dialogues to myself of unfulfilled aspirations. Monologues of shameful excuses for the unconquerable lofty visions of my naivety. Foreshadowing of my, now and forever, unattainable holy grail of happiness, my fulfillment of expectations and my completeness of achievement. Touchdown has been intercepted, home-run has been caught, championship-point has been lost. Drip, drip. You ARE the loserest. You ARE the weakest link, good bye. Cut! Next take. Quiet please. Stand by. …drip… *snap* Action!
-Sometimes, I am brave. I stand tall and let them come. I fight back. Gloves on. Get in the ring. Let them swing. Feint. Hook. Cross. Uppercut. Crush the ones I need to. Scuffle. Trample. Then, when against the ropes, I can even play mean and dirty. No rules, right, even for me? Jab below the belt! Hah! …Drip… Eventually, exhaustingly, energy expires. Them: relentless. Me: tired. Them: infinity. Me: myself, and I. Them: the sun. Me: Icarus. Them: hacked infinite ammo mod. Me: hacked. Them: evolvingly free. Me: stuck in cycle; The Neverending Story is me. Them: pi. Me: hamster. Or…am I the wheel? I swear, there is something cackling. No more. Please. How do I resign? Where is the white flag? Where’s the plank, Captain Hook? I hear Tick-Tock! … or was that Drip-Drop..? There is a point of giving up but you can’t. You have see how much more you can take. You can’t just give in, can you? In desolate despair, I can’t just… I have to just…And then I just… stand there. I let them come. No bob and sway, just there, I stand- utter dismay. That thunder grumbles and roars, even when doesn’t make a sound. Easy target here and now. The sharp ones sting and stab. Thorns around ocean mines, and blades on shurikens. Some stick and I have to, painstakingly, yank them out. Blood and cuts, but, no one sees. Some are bludgeoning, slamming into me, blunt and hard. Caught or not, medicines balls impacting, rippling my psyche into echoes. Cries and screams, but, no one hears. But me. I sometimes see myself, I sometimes hear me. But only If I’m paying attention, only if I’m looking out for it. Sometimes, subconsciously, I don’t want to-it hurts. I’m pathetic. See no evil, hear no evil, speak … to who? No one is truly listening anyway. Drip, drip. Some of them are big, unavoidable, utter destruction, their goal. Jupiters and Saturns of the sky. Bullies on the playground. Offensive linemen on the playing field. Some are small, even minuscule. Grains of sand performing their dance of abrasion, trying to form their ventifact of me. Shredding me to see how much I can harden - to see what parts of me they can leave behind, and what parts of me they can strip away. The pebble sized ones, are most dangerous. Faster and harder than the others. Bolting about with so much packed into them. Bullets. Cores of anxious lead covered by titanium regret. Armored with desperation failure, and guilt. Full. Metal. Jacket. When they hit, they cripple. Maim. Rendering their target obsolete right when it’s at its weakest. Why do they not aim better? Just snipe between the eyes. Get it over with. But that would be easy for you silly, and you don’t deserve easy. They want you depleted. Bone-weary. Dog-tired. Bird to the cats. Seal to the orcas. Antelope to the lions. Drip. It’s just prey-play, silly you. Yes, it’s me to the them.
-Some days, it’s bearable. I catch a few and try to hold on. It’s easier for me to just rest, lay down and breathe. Like staying atop the water in a tranquil flow. Being ever so careful though, for this is the tipping point. Any wrong move, any wrong ball caught, any right ball let go of or any stray one resurfacing, could have me battling buoyancy in a game she’s the master of. She has a way of toying with you. Holding you up just enough that you have to rely on her, pulling you down little by little, just so, tugging at you, this way and that. She is the siren that plays with sailors at sea; she sings softly and lulls you in, stringing you along and drawing you to right where she wants you. Then… I catch a heavy one, or, too many of them at once, or, move slightly the wrong way, or … what did I do?! Motion stops and time freezes. The feeling of a silent thundercrack booms. Drip... Unfreeze. The fight begins! She has become the monster of the sea, a minion of the depths. She wants to take you home. It’s another match on the tournament bracket. Bobbing for apples and I’m the damned cursed fruit. Fight or flight? Drownproofing is not an option anymore - run? where? - no- flights, out - so, fight. Frantic, I send balls flying everywhere. Some slingshot back. New ones emerge on the court. Catching. Holding. Releasing. Hurting. Repeating. She grips whatever she can grab a hold of. You can feel her talons at your ankles, across your arms, around your throat. She pulls down - hard! Survive… just for another day, even a moment longer… but… no, give it your all, a second wind… but… but …wait!..drip… do I fight more? Why? She is so tempting. This life long tournament won’t end until she wins. The war will rage on. I’m so tired. Let her hold you. You’ve been yearning it. Needing it. The rest. Down there is bliss. It’s motionless there, buried deep. Zen. We all float down here. Is that not what you’ve been fighting for, above water, in an unending cycle of climbs, falls, recovery and despair? Finally, I see inner peace but it’s not up here, it’s down there. Let her caress you with streams of bliss and let her slowly glide you down instead of drowning in the turmoil and chaos you will anyway, someday. Let NOW be your salvation. Yet, I won’t succumb. You are so silly. Drip. I’m not though, right? I have to fight, right? I have to fight for the right to fight, right? Give me another go. Redo. Load the last save. Another chance. Mulligan. I have to go again and again. Drip. … Do you really though? But, there are other players outside of this globe. They are playing too, just from the out there. Tossing it around. Taking swings. Bump. Set. Spike! Playing catch. No, not catch…no not any more. Now they play hot potato. Potato potato potato potato. No one wants me, but they need me. They depend on me. Drip. Silly you, people-please much? Do I?! I have to prove to them. I have to make them happy. Repent for my shortcomings for them. Provide for their futures. Provide for all their now’s. Beg forgiveness for all their thens. The list of duties is long and heavy and I’m way overdue , but it’s all that I am left with. Library fines and I burnt all the books. Silly you! Titan this, titan that. Atlas can’t to shit for you, it’s your own damn shoulders that must carry this burden. I’m willing, but why are you so mean and angry anyway? And help me for once, how can I carry the very thing that they are trapped in? Drip. Quite the conundrum, isn’t it silly? Drip, drip. By the way, mean and angry because I’m stuck in here with you and you won’t let me free. Die already. Drip. Drip.