Lost in A Maze (Of a Thousand Rainy Days)

I am in a funk.

(my mother's words, not mine.)

Though it's true. I'm just sort of. . . meh. My eyelids are made of lead, and I'm taking long, long blinks. There are bloody scratches down my arms, my thighs, and I find myself fidgeting. Picking and trimming and biting and frowning and jiggling and wriggling toes and cracking knuckles. The bags beneath my eyes have reached truly epic proportions, but I'm too busy staying up until dawn to notice nor care.



My skin is stretched, my eyes are sore, my fingers are developing calluses and tiny peeling bits of skin.
I know I'm not sick. I know nothing is wrong health-wise, physically or psychologically.

But I'm not right.

I'm tired and hopeless and I can't bring myself to do anything more than spout the same pretentious bull I've posted here for the last 2 years. I'm stuck in an endless repetition of self-loathing making way to self-pitying procrastination and general apathy and wow, look at me using big words!

My parents must be so proud. A useless daughter who only knows a few words.
Goody.

But I'm just
I can't do anything.
I stay up until my eyes bleed and the sun starts to dawn on the horizon and I do nothing.

I'm tired and sick and "in a funk" and I wish things were different. I wish that I wasn't like this, wasn't so easily swayed by circumstances out of my control. I wish I had the standard-regulation backbone that would help me control the circumstances I can, but no.
Wishing never got anyone anywhere.

Maybe I'm not supposed to go anywhere, anyways?

See; this is all I am good for. Pretentious babblings with childish metaphors and ideals. I'm such a flawed concept, such a hypocritical item. I'm a defective product. It's a wonder my mother hasn't asked for a refund yet.

Hell, what do I know. She probably did.

Sorry.

I just want to go and do and see and feel, want to experience things and break free of this helpless emotion I've fallen prisoner to. I want to run through rainstorms and snowbanks and down hot asphalt until the soles of my feet are callused, burnt raw and iced cold. I want my hair to fly into my face, cold wet locks clinging to one another and streaming rivulets down my face. Soft red strands flying in the corners of my vision during sunsets, gold and red making a frame for the sight. I want callused hands and bright eyes and smile lines and sorrow lines and I want better-defined dimples.

I want bruised knuckles and the hot headiness people associate with smoky rooms. I want foggy beaches and quiet forests and old, used bookstores that taste like bliss when you take a long breath through your nose. I want my skin to stretch, lengthen, loosen. I want my body to feel like my own, want my neck to become strong enough to support all the ideas and dreams in my head without making me crack it every 5 minutes.

I hate the nickname "Rice Krispies".
Hate the winces my mother involuntarily gives when she hears the "snap snap crack snap" of my neck.

I'm tired of snapped acrylic and leaf blowers and foul-smelling palm trees. Tired of these empty notebooks and the clouded days that never fill their unspoken promises. What I wouldn't give for a long car ride- for the wind in my hair, against my face, with the road stretching long and enticing in front of me.

What I wouldn't give to feel normal for once.