by The Dreamer

He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about . . . like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.

it’s back. it’s back. it’s back fucking goddammit it’s back why won’t it go away.

as the days inch closer and closer and the pages of the calendar get torn away one by one in fast-motion and the stress just increases in me exponentially, like a faulty tap that can’t be turned off, i feel like i’m slowly, painfully being asphyxiated. it’s a little like drowning, but i don’t feel the water collecting in my lungs, more of a black hole vacuuming the air in my lungs out and my chest always feels tight.

“heartburn”, i tell my mother. “it hurts.”

i was just studying for my prelims, reading the final few chapters of the great gatsby, and then i saw this passage and i just. i just broke down. the tears just welled up and it wouldn’t stop, like that fucking faulty tap i was talking about.

a loss of control, yet again.

a quality of distortion in my life, especially from the different sources of stress accumulating in me, suffocating me like a pair of sticky hands pressing down on the vital pressure points of my neck.

it’s the scariest thing ever. you feel like a ghost just watching a movie but that movie is your life and you can’t feel or hear anything properly and anything you say sounds like it’s from a different person and you are so aware of what everyone thinks of you. when i speak i sometimes literally feel like my voice is underwater. and i say things that i don’t mean, they just gush out like that faulty tap. i’ll blurt out to my parents, “i don’t get why people dream big, i just want to dream.” and i won’t be able to stop. i don’t even know what’s going on, the synapses are shutting down, my emotions are taking over, and i continue. “i don’t want to wake up, i want to live in my own dream world, and i want to sleep it all away, i want to write fiction and not deal with reality. i don’t bother opening the windows or feeding myself lunch or even bathing because everything just falls apart when it’s me and my mind and my words. i really don’t like waking up.”

in an alternative perspective, it kind of feels like pins-and-needles all over my body. i can touch things and experience things but i don’t feel it, because everything is just numb and too over-stimulated, so there’s a thousand million needles pricking me and stopping me from feeling the actual feelings i’m supposed to feel at that moment, you know?

and i try. i want to just tune everything off and study, but i can’t. it’s like my emotions are overpowering my will to do anything. i’ll feel things so intensely that my chest feels so bloody tight and i’ll literally sometimes choke. i’ll get irrationally happy, so happy that i can’t stop smiling because of nice immediate feedback i get on my writing, and then when the comments stop rolling in at the constant rate as it was, i’ll just go ‘oh’, and everything just gets flushed down the toilet bowl and i’m stuck in extreme lethargy and self-doubt and sadness. or when people encourage me to write more, and so i do, i forget about studying and i just focus on writing that stupid piece of useless fiction, and then the reaction is unusually dismal, and it just feels like i’m yelling into a void, and i just feel so lightheaded and heavy at the same time and i just want to not do anything for the rest of the day except read what i wrote and wonder what went wrong.

it’s so stupid. i wasn’t popular and i was happy. and then i am, and suddenly i’m unhappy.

i wish my emotions will stop fighting me, stop trying to take over the throne. i get it. i get it. take it. no one’s challenging you.

is this why i sleep early but wake up late. reality is so distorted but dreams are clarity. words that are supposed to be studied are a blur, but words that i indulge in are the only thing i can digest and i–

i just want to hug onto my doll and feel okay again.

but time is ticking away, and my grades are plummeting at the same rate as i’m falling out this plane of reality, and in reality, there are no wings that sprout out of your back to save you, no handsome princes to grab onto your hand when you topple off the side of a cliff, no superpower strength to break the glass jar that entraps you and supplies you with no air.

also i hate that my update is this. i wanted to write about michelangelo and some of my recent observations about the world around me but the words are just – the tap is faulty the other way around; they refuse to flow out, and somehow i just ended up vomiting all of this. i hate it. emotions ruling over me, and my body, and my life. what if i’m not real, what if i’m simply a living embodiment of Uncontrolled Passion or Recklessness or Impulsiveness or Intensity or something. Will that explain why I can’t function in balance like everyone else?