Like the skinny hand on the broken clock
That isn't quite yet broken
I kind of find myself ticking back and forth
Between the numbers 8 and 9
Not quite committing to either side.
I constantly wonder if maybe there is a chemical imbalance
inside my brain
A legitimate clinical diagnosis for feeling so up
And so down
And then I remind myself that everyone is imbalanced
A little crazy, a lot crazy..
My biggest fault, my biggest anxiety
Has always been
being hyper aware of everything around me.
It is nice because sometimes I get to see three snails
entangled with each other
Their slow moving slime
Mixing with the others’
I get to see the little beetle slurp up a dew drop on a very
small leaf on a very large bush.
I know when to stop talking, when to start talking because
sometimes people’s eyes twitch and their mouths become a hard line
and sometimes they sparkle and quiver a little.
It is nice because I can remember exactly how my mother
smelled when I was six
Marlboro reds, leather and Herbal essence.
I can tell when someone is not really cold or uncaring but,
rather, just painfully shy
And I can try my best to accommodate them, to make them feel
comfortable.
But I am also so extremely aware of each moment that passes
It creates a panic in my belly
Always in my belly
I stand in the middle of my days
And I watch the sun shine brightly through my window
I watch the shadows of clouds pass by, making the whole room
turn a few shades darker
And then the sun comes back through and the whole room
brightens again
I watch everyone blur past me in a flurry
A colorful blizzard of arms and legs and teeth
And I reach out to them
Constantly and desperately.
I reach out to strangers when I am sitting on the bus with
my ear buds in
I am hoping that no one speaks to me, avoiding eye contact
And still, I am just aching for a strange woman’s hand to
rest on my shoulder and tell me that all of these feelings don’t have to make
sense
Waiting for an old man’s lips to touch my forehead, to let
me know that I am loved and so is he and to not worry so much about the woman
in the back who seems to be crying
Silently.
I watch my friends talk about their day or their week
I watch their mouths, occasionally their eyes
And I listen
Intently
Because they interest me, they make me feel
But always, always
In the back of my mind
Is a little girl tugging at my sleeve
I hold my finger to her and tell her to wait a minute
But she tells me that she can’t wait a minute, she doesn’t
have a minute
That’s precisely what she’s been trying to tell me all this
time.
She tugs at my sleeve again and again
Reminding me that seconds are passing and minutes and hours
and days
And at the same time that my heart gets heavy and time slips
through my fingers
Like sand, like water
I am wishing for the weekend
Counting down the hours
Checking the clock
Always waiting. Always wanting to be somewhere else.
And I know that this is the source of the illness
This is why I am in so much discomfort
Because I am painfully aware of the fact that I need to give
myself permission to exist
In the here and the now
And still, I don’t.
I ignore the little girl tugging at my sleeve, occasionally
telling her to wait a minute.
Like the skinny hand on the almost broken clock
The one that you keep in the bathroom and you haven’t thrown
out because you don’t notice it anymore
You don’t use it anymore.
I am the hand that tells you how many seconds have passed
And I am both moving rapidly and not moving at all
Stuck in a dream
Stuck in sand
Trying my fucking best to get anywhere and no where
Trying my very best to appreciate every tender moment that I
face
I am trying
And I know that is all we can do
But I am still not satisfied
And I still can’t decide
Can’t decide between the 8 and the 9.
