write, because how else to untangle yourself out of all of this porridge
i just want even just a few hours of brain-peace. tired of tired of tired of doing The Self Managing thing. to be able to discuss and collaborate and not be stuck amongst the swirling mountain-wind choirs for every tiny-movement-happening whilst i try to gather the selves in a way that is holdable. in a way that the porridge is pick-upable. she cuts the porridge, holds it like a cake. serves it to the sun, arm outreached, above head, above mind, sugar-oats glistening like a roundified lake. all of the pieces… together one. perfect product, wobble-edged and squashable.
i’m inside out, i feel inside out – but half-edged. diagonal-jagged buttercrumb sliding, squealing, drip down formulate, congealate, seperate, puddle-expand expand expand engulf and disappear.
do i silently ask for too much? do i crave too much? is it overnough? they watch the thought glide by, like a passing paraglider in upward drift.
i am evernoughed, yet neverenough, they tell me, but my mind’s too soup to look at it properly.
i have a seemingly constant fear of people falling. i have a seemingly constant fear of being the cause of people falling. and i’m sorry that you fell. and i’m sorry that you have to fall, and that you’ll fall again. and the fear of falling feels like falling.
why must that mean so many things? unjumblings in parallel, resurfacing the whirlpools as if i asked them to be looked at. summoned uninvited. welcomed, but i’ll face the wall.
i adjusted the cinnamon routine and am worried about the changes in the universe. reclaiming the cinnamon routine may confuse things even more, and create even more possibly-not-good changes. therefore, i’ve sneakily adapted by cinnamonning doubly elsewhere, to maintain the cinnamonspheres, yet to embrace the possibility of significant positive release. change is possibility. possibility holds possibilities. not all possibilities are wanted possibles. unwanted possibles hold unseen possibles. unseen possibles hold unknown possibles. unknown possibles hold tiny sparkling porridges. she licks the tiny sparkling porridge, like a ladybird on a leaf. she yawns; she rolls; she stretches… and flies to unseen planet seas of poss i bi li teacups on telephone-string, teacups on telephone-string swirling and curling unfurling and yearning and yearning and yearning and yawning and curling-up-into-a-ball-of- BEURGHGGHGGGHHHHHHHH the butterball melts and burns like hot on concrete, spiky like the sunseeds on a greedy-licker tongue.
“not greedy, just curious”, confirms a hopeful voice but my mind is too soup and the curiosity burned the greedy bat, my mind’s too soup, too soup to look at it properly, my mind’s still soup to look at it properly, must i continue to reinforce until their communications tread water like loitering mind-dolphins instead of inside-outing within an already inside-outed too-soup-to-look-at-it-properly beurghh-creature?
exploding exploding exploding
i see fallen bodies and i am sorry. and i will upside-down us all through horizontal-land travellers buzzing through the air.
this is terrifying. i don’t know if you know that this is terrifying. the wordifying, i-ifying, the saying re-looking. there it is, straight ahead, immersed, dark-abyss hurtling. but i notice the terror from too-soup-to-look-at it. i have been here before. this is pre-bleak pre-grief. and i am sorry for the fallen bodies that i have saw – i am sorry for the fallen bodies i fought and fell and-
disturbance-interruption from the giant-tiny noises. cold radiator creaking in the warming of the sun, like irony-filled empathy smiles from world to world. brainland echoes the smiling, and the buzz-glow spreads like softened icing on gentle bread. feel the essence. pause the ____-ness. Be the ____. the ___ ___ _______ ___. *+*.+. *.+*+. *.+. *+.+.+..+*+*+*+.
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Sumita: Unjumbled 