Just one of those days, I say to myself. I don't know why I'm like this, but I have problems verbalizing my moods; a knee-jerk reaction, maybe? So I say 'just one of those days' to absolve myself. I feel bad for being foul-tempered. I feel like it's something I need to apologize for. I feel like I'm something I need to apologize for.
Thoughts seem to travel many miles through me, and by the time they reach my lips they've corrupted into foul things. I'd like nothing better than to hurl them outwards like so many knives. I feel the vague urge to destroy; something useless, of course. Something that wouldn't be missed. But watching something splinter apart and knowing it was my hands that did so is the most satisfying thing I can imagine right now.
I'd hurl some kind of guttural yell outward, also.
A flash of pain lances through my skull. Of course; it wouldn't be a proper foul mood without a headache. It's to the point where I wonder if the headache is the cause of the mood, or vice versa? Or maybe it's an infinite feedback loop of pain and irritation, annoyance and discomfort.
Everything annoys me. Watching people smile, the sound of laughter. The din of innumerable conversations. The throbbing in my temples. I want nothing more than to crawl back into bed and avoid the world, just for today. The fact that I can't makes it even worse.
When I'm upset, I see the world in a different way. Everything is discordant- I see the lines intersect and tangle, I hear everything as an insistent pulse against my ears. It's much like an orchestra sounds as they warm up; there is no sense to anything. It's cacophony, chaos. Everyone is screaming and nothing makes sense. It's all too loud, pressing against my eyes, my bone cage.
I come home after a terrible rehearsal. I had a list of things I needed to take care of, but I really just couldn't be bothered at this point. Now I want to write; it's the only thing positive I've been able to latch onto all day. And trust me, I've been clinging. It became a mantra as I watched the minute hand on the clock slow to a crawl; get through this, write. So of course when I actually sit down to do so, I can't organize myself. I've been totally frayed by my mood, I've mirrored the chaos outside like an imprint in sand.
I feel like a kid whose just been told that Santa isn't real; this is the worst kind of bait and switch I've ever felt, and it's made all the worse because I was the one who fooled myself. If I'd been in my right mind, I'd have known this toxic mood would become a barrier between what I see and feel and the ability to put it to words.
I've had it. I've crossed that threshold; the act of giving a shit is now impossible. I don't yell, don't scream. I don't smash anything like I've wanted to all day. I just . . . take a breath. Pull it in deep and then push it out; an act of violence itself. And every breath I take I'm one bit lighter. Every exhale puts the world into sharper relief, until all that chaos swirling around in my skull has slid into harmony. Not quite calm -- there's too much going on for that-- but everything is in unison. You can't imagine it.
For the first time today, I feel that undeniable fervor twitching in my fingers. I feel that fire. I sit down to write, and I am unchained.
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