A swirling blackhole opened up in the middle of my chest sucking me into a dark bliss that took me off of planet Earth and into a timeless time. It was fast and the vacuum it had for my sanity was quick, it was as if it just roared and longed for me to join it inside of some deep dark mystery. I could feel it deepening and sucking my existence in like a vacuum cleaner that picks up particles of dust off of granite floors. It’s uncomfortable and leaves my anxiety peaking. I know what it is, this time, but for the past month or so it’s been a bit harder to depict.
Boys are like comets as they come crashing down on to Luna. They leave craters implanted on the dusty terrain and the emptiness is like space dust, residue that merely disappears after five or so seconds. I’ve come to learn that I’m beside Luna and they’re Mars, I don’t understand them, yet close enough to gain some kind of life off of my energy. But, that life that I have been giving is depleting due to circumstances, whether it was for reassurance, fun, or out of boredom, it hasn’t done anything but pull this small little light back into the blackhole to begin with. It’s like asking to be accepted by a fiery ball of dust only to be burnt alive at mere sight. If you get too close your skin will melt and leave you speechless in the midnight’s presence, but soothing as you die because your memories in front of the furnace vanquish with a midnight summer’s kiss.
And, then, there are bills. The dying need to reaffirm your adulthood and establish an identity based on the demands of those around you. These are the stars that pop ever so often and you can only shriek for they are unpredictable. You depend on them to aid in your independence only to realize that you’re much better off as a dependent. Meanwhile, the blackhole takes you in as the galaxy around you crashes down due to insufficient funds. Can I buy this house tomorrow? Will I purchase that car next year? Is my phone going to be on? Are thoughts that count down the light years that stars have left as they leave nothing but the spectacles of a dwarf planet behind.
How, oh how, can I make the blackhole in my body go away, permanently? Do I eliminate my sexuality all together and just live lovelessly around the Milky Way, or do I just ignore those innate humans needs while trying to establish something “substantive” with one I know is inadequate for me? Why is it that the vacuum roars even louder when I’m beginning to blossom into the person that I never thought I could become? Is it that the blackhole is a space in time that underestimates me or is it that I underestimate it? I thought I did everything to keep it away and keep it closed, but it’s such an isolated entity. It’s almost as if the mere existence of it keeps everything together while all of the galaxies are falling apart. The stars, the comets, the meteors, the thunder, the storms, all can’t exist or go on without first entering a portal that takes it all elsewhere.
So, to those of us who suffer, under the guise of mere dark eternity, do we just watch ourselves get pulled in only be spat out again? It’s like the quicksand on the bottom of Jupiter if it’s still there… that is. Or, if it was ever there.. the mere illusion of our reality makes me ponder the existence of an alternate one. Does it hold the same stressors? Are those other more advanced species bothered by comets and stars? Or, am I taking them a bit too serious?
Whatever the case, revitalize me. There are certain things that I do in order to avoid the void that a blackhole brings. If you are aware of Luna you know that she rises in the night time, hangs gently in the sky, and then quietly goes back into the clouds as she hides her face away from those who roam during the day. Perhaps, I should become more like that of the Sun. Maybe, the emotional rhythmic cycle that I have created for myself should be evolved into something much more transcendental. Perhaps, if I incorporate a fierceness into my being will all of my mental torment subside? We look to a daily horoscope for answers, but are those answers enough to answer what we can’t even begin to beg a question to?
I just wonder because in the middle of all my aimless wondering I found myself at a crossroads in the middle of space, one where the sign said go left and I made my way right. But, in the middle of these days, I wonder if I’m going too far right and not left enough. It’s always been said that right is always the right of way, but what if those on the left should have been given a chance to go first too? Would they hang themselves in a night’s sky crafted by a ventriloquist or will they actually survive the perils of the universe?
I have found, that the more I avoid the blackhole the deeper I’m swimming in the middle of it. My destruction is at the hands of my decisions and I can either choose to make the most of it or allow it to consume me. What am I to be learning from all of these trials and errors?
So far, I have found that maybe Luna is too quiet. Her humble silence isn’t demanding, pushy enough. She knows what she wants but she just sorts of goes through the many phases to get there, only to place on a new face in the middle of the night when people need her the most. Have you noticed that it’s always at a full or new moon that the creepiness of extraterrestrial beings come out? I have. I have because I keep walking beside her and I understand the secrets that we whisper to each other about the refreshing need to disappear. Or, reappear in a new form just when everyone thinks everything is going well.
In the deep dark bliss of my room, I find that I appeal so much to Luna that I don’t even like to turn on the lights in my home. The darker, the quieter, the deeper the contemplation. But, the problem with this is that outside, life is passing me by as I sit silently in front of my laptop screen watching it happen.
The internet. What digital demands there are, it shouldn’t exist because they make recluses like myself feel stuck alone in shadows. There are some of us who just prefer the restoration of closed in spaces because we’re like caterpillars that are evolving into butterflies within a moment’s time, only the sunlight may make rays that are too brilliantly streaming for us to interpret. The internet is like a space ocean that comes crashing around and floods lava into the craters creating some intricate kind of element. This element has yet to be explored or discovered, but its millions and millions of atoms that create it is something compelling. I mean, we can’t live without this element. This element is a bit more toxic than oxygen itself and when you decide to not inhale, digest, and exist in the middle of it you are then sucked into another blackhole.
The beginning of all of my pondering, on this particular night, happened because of that element. I can’t, for the life of me, fathom why it has to exist so brutally and overexert its presence in the form of an addiction. I feel wiped out, although I haven’t been around anyone, and I can’t get off of it due to the approval that I seek from the bits of likes here and comments there. It’s an intoxicating addiction, much worst than alcoholism because it makes you feel like you’re never enough. And, just when I’m left alone in the dark bliss of my room I can hear the vacuum of that blackhole swirling louder and louder, roaring on and on, as it compels me to check another message, another memo, another piece of mail.
Worst than the comets, the stars, and the entire galaxy it’s like a time portal. You jump into different dimensions when you take in this element, something like a hallucinogen, but not quite as fun. It may be compared to a bad trip but at least you know that you’re getting off of the ride. This time portal is like a going through the blackhole and then reaching an exit at the back of the end of existence itself. Why does business have to exist the way that it does online? Why does my family have to exist the way that they do online? What happened to phone calls and checking on you in person? Why is it that we know a person when they’ve shared their day? Why do we assume they’re okay because we see their pictures from a two-second snapshot of their entire 24 hours?
Whoever discovered this element clearly had no remorse for the psychological need of our human race. They wanted their pockets full, and full, and fuller than ever. And, once upon a time, as a blogger, I thought this would be an amazing thing to make a profit off of ads, but why? Why would I want people to be addicted to my website in the most unhealthy sense? Why would I sell the element or try to persuade those to consume it? I’m better off just pedaling hallucinogens to rich people who have nothing better to do with their time except play with it, then again, those rich people don’t exist.
And, about the rich people, why are they so intoxicating as well? What is it about the rich and lavish that we envy? Is it something in the way that they strut the materialistic items that they own? Do we see something in how they exist in the material world that causes for us to want to be a part of it? Do we see inadequacy in ourselves when we can’t buy a certain outfit or eat certain places? A person once said that the richest thing in the world is being poor, but why is it that the poor can’t seem to be rich enough? It’s as if they too are intoxicated by the element. This element is something much, much deeper than the internet itself. It’s slimy, it’s gooey, and instead of green, it’s grey. And, you may be thinking, “oh, she’s talking about money,” but no, I’m talking about pride.
As I hang with Luna in the night time observing the way that we make sense of the world, why is it that when we sit in dark corners by ourselves we are gently reassuring our worth, meanwhile, those who hang out in the open seem to be overzealous? It’s like they take stalk in what they drive, how many friends they have, and the places they can go in their spare time. Meanwhile, the ones who hang in the night time are left with nothing but a feeling of inadequacy when we, in fact, have some of the most brilliant minds.
Why is it that the blackhole almost caved in when I was told that my life is nothing more than a “fictional story” and that I’m “ill logical?” is it that I felt bad for the stupidity of the proud man? Why do the words of a proud man have so much weight? Is it the perceived popularity of him that makes me question my meek and humble beginning? That grey metallic metal is a rusted element that makes me feel as if I’m not enough when in the deepest of my pondering I find that my mind is a muse that wraps around the throats of those who can’t really handle the taste of prophecy.
And, in the midst of my speculation, I find that every last blackhole that was to ever be created within the middle of my chest subsides when I isolate myself from the rest of the world. A ponderous thing, it is.
Perhaps, I am psychopathic in nature. You know what they say about those in the dark? They are a bit too charming for their own good. But, it’s when I hang without hanging, like in the middle of a waxing gibbous moon phase, that I find myself feeling more confident, more creative, and more restored. My shoulders go down, my eyes open up, and my bags begin to disappear because I can sleep and in the deep dark bliss of ponders behind my eyelids I see the stars, talk to the angels of the heavens above, and feel more connected to the universe than what I ever do when I’m awake.
So, when the universe is spinning uncontrollably and I have to face the multiple kinds of facets of logic like space and time I find myself creating craters into my own existence. Boys, bills, expectations, goals, the internet, proud men and the other works are all ravenous knocks at my heart’s walls. When, in reality, I should probably just accept the fact that I feel freer as a loner in the night.