Dejection

Have that care-away insignificance saying things to me, like I'm fine for feeling dejected when I see him post a heart on his she's page. Pin the jealousy on the asinine, that's the hour theme, and my left buttock has just been stabbed. I don't know why I like it - it's an extraneous feeling, not belonging to the spectrum I'm accustomed to describing. Yes, it's jealousy, it's been that way for a long time. I thought I'd moved on. I'd blogged about it. I wrote the feelings out of the damn emotion script so that I could have a different hue to my experiences. But even now, in the light of my reading light, I feel the same rib-xylophoning sensation, tenderly rough on my insides. It's jealousy, still tuning me out. I come alive with it, when I notice it radiate like some uranium in me, poisonous, toxic, but damn rich, damn rich and desirable because it's inspiring in some strange, dump, metal-container way.

That's what's talking right now. A disease. In the sense that it is not an ease but dis is a familiar ease by now. I have learned not to battle it and somehow I find myself liking feeling this way. Imagine getting accustomed to poison. I don't know how it works, I don't know what kind of bad it's doing to me. I have suffered suffered from it in the past, but I still take it. It's a chemical that my brain secretes though, and as such I feel some volunteer-freedom from it because I can't control it when the receptors receive and then poppy-send my opium down to the general torso area. I feel jealous. Or something to that super-effect. I feel not like I'm meant to receive that heart - not consciously - though there's a webbed shadowy corner that would be most pleased if it housed his heart. I feel more like there's a spider living there, and it crawls out when it sees potential prey play out behind the dining room table. Translate that to Facebook. I used to think much of this, now I think much less. I used to project a broom to thrash the wallfuck out of that bitch, crack the dwelling, yet I would be the one dwelling next time. It's what happened when conscious me decided it was time to move on, and subconscious me needed more time, a little more venom, a little more convincing.

It was decided then, that people would create, read copulate, and I would sit my sinister ass down on the chair to wait. So whenever another heart was passed over the table with the salt, and the spider came out of its den, I stopped chasing it with a broom. I strove to do what I'd tried and failed next to reluctance to do before - to love it, to embrace the feeling as a mother would embrace her crying child. I don't know then, if this is it. I feel jealousy, and although it has the same edge-of-screen red warning palpitation that being poisoned has had before, it's bearably accepted. I don't know why I still feel jealous, or maybe I know subconsciously, and maybe I don't want to think about it anymore. But I like the feeling. It allows me to write things like this post. It's a feeling with a fuel and a fire and somehow they combine. It's warm, and I like it when I can have my hands cupped and the wish comes true. Didn't even remember I'd asked for this, but it's here, so I must have, somehow.

Not sure if this is good or bad. I feel it's fine to just let it be. I'm eager to know what it means, but I don't want to interfere. That's correct, the presence of reluctance. It's in the building. From another angle, I can see myself longing, having that wonderfully scary picture of him walking away under an empty sky. There's freedom. And something tells me, it still hasn't been picked. Its fingers are just bent around the cliffedge, one right angle, the other trying to be right. I haven't picked freedom because I still had hope to be trapped. Genie grants my wish. But my shadow has moved far enough away that I can see it was only a half-wish that was granted, a brazen want broken-masted in the wind.

Wait for it to snap off, vacuumed by passing hours or the resolve that can happen within them. I am saying this resolve isn't going to be thought-out by me. No. It will come in its own time. Perhaps with its own blog post. 'Til then, I fester and the chemicals parade through my veins while I wade through the chemistry of nonmescript living.