I am bored and I am useless.
I was born of thicker stuff then this, but lately I have nothing to say that I haven’t said before.
No muse to ignite my mortal fight.
Words run like watered down glue, nothing really sticking because nothing seems particularly worth it.
The monotony of days is harmless.
Or as harmless as the useless can be.
Self care tipping on the edge of liberalism.
Just, just fuck off internal arguments of self worth.
Do I not deserve moments of silence,
or am I just drowning in tepid water?
What do those who are given everything really deserve, anyway?
When does introspection grow clusters and your test results are bad and you know you have been infected by the cancer of apathy- again- nothing I have not said before.
I have dregs of songs reminding me of that bursting, when your chest is full of everything that has ever happened ever so that words fall flat like the skins of balloons.
But lately my chest has been full of shallow steady breaths. I must keep reminding myself to breath deep to avoid the anxious suspicion that my uselessness is more harmful then I think it is.
That maybe my boredom is not just a symptom of comfort but of my weakness. And that maybe I am not strong enough for this fight.
But as she drunkenly swirls over her cigarette and tells me- that sounds nice but that fight is not for me- I remember-
Stillness is not weakness, it preparation for warfare. My body is my own and at its very tip I have tattooed a reminder.
To remember that with my privilege has positioned me to execute strategy, that I am fighting for freedom, and that my ever present self doubt and criticism is not a flaw but will fuel me to never stand still too long. To never stop on fighting.
But to do this I must embrace the balance, because only human hubris would have me think that I was above the rhythm of the ocean.
Three strong waves and then stillness. I let the waves grind my soft, school girl hands into the sand to remind myself that I am only human.