On the Inside

It’s easy, when your on the outside looking in, to define emotion, label it, and kid ourselves we know what it is. But when it is you tossed in the midst of a storm, it’s hard to put a name to it. It’s hard to describe, but I want to try it, because that is how writer’s get a grasp on things. Besides, I want someone, somewhere to understand what I’m going through.

I call it depression or anxiety. I’ve never been to psychiatrist, I have no idea if there is anything “wrong” with me. It just hits me, bolt out of the blue, a convoluted mixing pot of truly horrible emotions. I feel myself pulsing with a dark energy that I just can’t let it out. I feel the world so deeply, but am unable to express what I feel. I look around at my so called friends and see them all raised on a weak broth of shallow  comedy. They have not an original thought. All that matters to them is the next laugh.

I can’t talk to any one of them. They wouldn’t understand, they might laugh. Or worse, they’d pretend understanding, nod sagely and rattle off some second hand notion. Everything is one big fucking joke. There’s a hatred, a disgust for this shallowness, a hollowness so pervasive it affects even me. Who the fuck am I? I’m brain chemistry and surplus repression. I’m part of this pointless joke.

There’s a yearning for something better. To be who I am, to know who that is. To have someone untainted by the Joke. An artist’s soul, a philosopher’s eye. I long for proximity. My head resting against a neck or a chest, a hand in mine, breathing. And most importantly, someone to talk to.