Some feelings on paper

I feel too much.

I feel too deeply.

Sometimes it hurts, because my soul is swallowed in lachrymose.

Sometimes it hurts, because my soul tremors with electric ecstasy.

 

I feel good when I’m kind.

I feel good when I’m liked.

Sometimes knowing what’s kind is like knowing what the wind is thinking.

Sometimes being liked is as unobtainable as capturing the wind.

 

I feel good when I know.

I feel good when I’m loved.

Sometimes I don’t know if I’m being shown kindness, or simply the best that person can provide.

Sometimes I don’t know if I’m loved under obligation or loved because I am.

 

I feel good when I fit.

I feel good when I’m invisible.

Sometimes fitting into clothes, fitting into my skin, my ears, nose and face, feels good.

Sometimes I think fitting into my skin means invisibility, they can’t criticise if they can’t see.

 

I feel good when I don’t fit.

I feel good when I’m odd.

Sometimes I remember incongruity is authenticity, and authenticity is kindness.

Sometimes I remember being odd means fitting into my own skin, my own mind.

 

I feel too much.

I feel too deeply.

Sometimes my feelings feel like shovels of dirt slowly suffocating me.

Sometimes my feelings become too heavy and I have to release them somehow.

Don’t do that.

This is wrong, this isn’t normal.

I can’t release my feelings the way I want to, sometimes.

It’s too topical they say, it’s avoidant they say; people will know if you do that.

 

I feel too much.

I feel too deeply.

Sometimes my feelings become too heavy for those who are obligated to carry them for me.

Sometimes my feelings are explosive, nonsensical, rearing up from left field.

 

What do they mean?

Why are they here?

I’m warm and enclosed, I’m chubby and well-fed, I’m filled with knowledge gifted to me.

My feelings don’t come from violence, cruelty or malevolence.

 

I feel good when I sleep.

I feel good when I don’t sleep.

Sometimes my soul is swallowed by hopeful darkness, and blissful balance envelopes me.

Sometimes my soul paints it’s pain in vivid colours on my mind in despondent vignettes.

 

I feel good when I speak.

I feel good when I’m quiet.

Sometimes it hurts, because my chest can only hold so much.

Sometimes it hurts, because my words get stuck in my throat and I can’t speak anymore.

 

I feel good when I’m in control.

I feel good when I can let go.

Sometimes I can use my body the way I want, and pop the air bubble in my chest.

Sometimes I can let my body use me the way it wants, and pop the air bubble in my chest.

 

 

 

I feel sick when I sing.

I feel sick with no clothes.

Sometimes I want to join others in cathartic melodies, but I don’t want them to hear.

Sometimes I want to explore empowered liberties, but I don’t want them to see.

 

I feel too much.

I feel too deeply.

The earth moves beneath me, but I can’t keep up.

My breath catches and stutters, dense and teeming as I go.

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