Fucked dreams lately. “She’ll commit suicide!” I saw her. Almost childish. “I have all this time, but I mean nothing to you unless I make money!” Naive, I know. I shouted. So much. Too much to process, so it comes at night. Mother. Also spectral. Like us. An amplified degree, apart from society. We never spoke about it though. Only just recently, I brought it up. After watching ‘Love on the Spectrum’ on Netflix, and seeing reflections of all of us. Irritation. Patterns. Routines. Addictions. Nuances. Little things. Looks. Eye contact at times too intense. Certain noises. Smells. Artificial fragrances. Construction dust. Not construction dust! Roll the window up! Poor AQI. Mask up. Before we were lonely together, already apart. What else? Habits and rituals. If broken, potential disaster. Easily irritable, given conditions. Hard to socialize. Anxious. Self-harming. Alcohol. Substance intake overload. In, in, in. Stuff it down. Numb it out. Sensory explosion. What else? So much else. Colors, patterns. Music helps. Piecing together a puzzle, across the ocean, my grandmother and me in the same motion. No communication. Better to shut it all out than to be overwhelmed. How can we help it? All this emotion. I get too into it. Insanely intricate homes on SIMS as a kid. And LEGO buildings. Hours and hours. Should have been an architect, a designer. Can I change now? Maybe. Move from words to images. Words fail me. So do images. Nothing will do, but I have to do the best I can. Do I? Hm. What else? Overanalyzing. Rationalizing as a form of self-soothing. Self, self, self. It consumes me. I do. So much going on inside, lost in thought, I spiral around until I fall over and into myself. Endless limits. I know which roads to take, always. Map of a mind. I know which streets have the most jasmine planted. I follow scents, certain windows, glass I like. Preferences cemented in. But recently, with psychedelics, more self-aware (is it possible? yes, I was so blind to all of this before, just in it, now I can see it and experience it too, from/within some outer awareness) and open to change. Going with the flow, sometimes. But that’s all there is. So why resist and get mad if it doesn’t feel perfect? That’s another thing. Perfection. The smallest pore. You see nothing until it all comes out. And it does. At my own expense. Energy, energy, energy. Picking at myself. Impossible to sit still. Well, not impossible. In groups, in rooms with people, I can. With peer pressure. Peer pressure! Easily disguised as shyness. As a kid, a teenager, hopeless, running in circles trying to fit in, what a piece of shit. I hated it, that, her, the result. Sometimes still. But I also see the spark underlying all of it. And her, it, I love. Learning to focus on that. What else? So much else. Tasting details. Drawing parallels. I will find a way to live with this, even if I don’t, I will live with this. And it will be beautiful. It will be my art, to find a way, to be okay. I will no matter what. It all will.
Is speaking/(writing) subjectively an inherently selfish act? Is it possible to speak for others in speaking for self? Or speak for those who came before (especially those silenced) by speaking now? Do women get challenged more for speaking subjectively than men?