Often I just get in a mood that feels like sitting in a very still pool of lukewarm water and I feel like watching people. And I watch the interactions that they pass to eachother, insults pass flinches like internal tremors across the table, an offended blink, a casual grimace. No big deal. I dont care. Whatever. Fuck you. Pussy. Bitch. And I dont understand it at all. There is nothing of myself I'm afraid to be anymore (it makes me nervous, but not so much legitimate frightening) and I am not scared of the things I dont understand. I havent found myself threatened by much, I have no need to be threatening. everything I observe seeps into my bloodstream until I'm full and Im so full so full full full of emotion that even though I tell people my day was good and I'm not lying sometimes I have to cry because I just feel things and I wonder if they are real because they are untouchable by anyone but me, its so sad to me that we can only feel our own feelings, that we cant reach out and touch and hold and embrace those precious and fragile thoughts that flap and fall from the nests of people's minds. I cant feel them. We are so limited, and inept as humans, to be trapped in such a trivial thing as ourselves. The confines of my pliable skin.

And then that question, that EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT OHEMHAWD.

It's the way I see
everything I need
it's no way to be

as if fun was burst from seeds, the leaves of contentment. As if that swirling high could be born upon a flame. As if that thing, the very thing that makes life so fascinating, (that makes one see the twist and the turn of the fire, licking the air in pained strokes; the glow that imitates warmth by merely encompassing cold, the dulled luminoscity behind bulbous irises. The searing touch,) of heightened senses? As if experience, wonder, or imagination could be ziplocked in a little baggie and burnt. As if the putrid stench, both weedy and black as rich dirt, that acquired taste, was what made things so easy, lucky, free.

As if feeling, as if passion, was something so dense and and intense to be overwhelming for humans, that it must be merely the smoke, those shadowy remains, of it that we inhale. Feelings invoked or feelings evaded? I'd rather find this strength within myself. Why are we so inadequate as to not have all this bottled within us?

I do i do i do believe we have it. whats so wrong with finding it?
But I'm still curious to try?

But I feel alive and I feel it in me
up and up I keep on climbing
higher and higher and higher
higher and higher and higher