Cue

"Catharsis and choking." Stream-of-conciousness, slightly old. (January 2011)

I can't stop I can't breathe and I can't ask any questions because I know there aren't any answers. I can't think and I can't speak so really,  I don't know why I know. There's nothing worse than sitting, useless, going through the motions, not actually feeling the rise and collapse of the lung cavity, not actually keeping still, but just going according to routine.

It sucks to be me. Not that I know that. I mean, it might be instinct to want some nitrogen (with a smattering of oxygen , carbon, and trace gases) to fill my mouth, my lungs, and come out a new thing. Yeah, it might be, but I've never known it. Only read it in books and heard about those crazy old historical people who had that kind of luxury.

It might be nice to be able to stay still. Smell the roses, as you will -- but since I can't breathe, if I could only have my one wish be to stay still, the roses would be out of the question. But no, moving is all I do. Going through motions of instinct. Open my mouth, it's not a vacuum, nothing changes. I know how, but I just can't breathe. And everything else they used to do. Laugh. Smile. Cry.

I control myself, or they do. If I could really do it all I guess I'd be an anomaly. Some freak from the past sidling through the future, flaunting his gift. Why should I have the priveledge anyway? It's useless to dream. But it's very satisfying.

If I could breathe, I could sing. I could sing out into the world and I could yell, they could hear me, and all my thoughts.

But I can't think. Not freely. Maybe that's an oddity, an imperfection in the system -- because if I can't think, what is this? An inner monologue just recited by my mind, written by some fool who can?

I can't laugh or smile. Maybe the plasticity seems like reality to you, or the shrill hiccuping after something said, to envoke that exact action. I don't even know how I do it, going through the motions. I guess sound comes whether air does or not. Flowing out from me without lungs, no air, no power.

I can't cry because I'm not sad. What's depression? What is anger? What is hopelessness? I'm alien to it all, not it to me. I know of it. It's oblivious to me, emotion is an absent thing. I can't cry out, I can't cry, it's just a fact. I can retch and move my lips, I can sob with that same inane airless sound, but shedding tears I can't do. I can't stop moving, I can't give up the motions.

I think that's the one unavoidable truth I don't strive to be rid of. Why should I stop? Really, if things went their way, I wouldn't want to be rid of anything. But why, why can't I stop?

If I could do everything, everything I act, if it was all real to me, I would be perfect. I have the motions down. Give me the emotion.

Give me happy, sad. Give me anger. Give me breath. Give me laughter. Give me music.

Don't let me stop, don't make me, I can't.