FA+
Shop
Prism of Being
4 years ago
I am tired but I just had a panic attack.
I don’t think I should still be up to write this but I am. My head kind of hurts from the throbbing, though it isn’t a migraine.
When life is so simple and tidy, no turbulence to overcome or problems to solve, you begin to think about the after. What happens next. I am not suicidal by any means, in fact-- I tend to think I am very happy with my current situation. But that is just it. I am too satisfied, too content and too disconnected.
I am paranoid because there is nothing exciting about my life. It goes perfectly to plan and I wonder when the next big thing will happen.
But I often wonder in my bed about how we exist and that no matter what we do we are to have always existed and contained in whatever the fuck this is. Think about that with me. If we die, say we continue to persist. What end is there beyond the after? We are just forced to exist regardless of how we feel about it. I genuinely hope that when we pass, there is nothing. I could not bare to be aware of an unending time.
I darted up from my bed screaming ‘shit’ and holding my head, trying to keep it from popping off with how fast my heart rate spiked up. Again, I thought deeper into the idea. No matter what we do, we are to have existed and there stands the possibility that we will continue to exist trapped in the purgatory of a never ending space. It is frightening enough to have me fall from my bed, repeating vulgarities as I panic on the bedroom floor.
Then I stop, I take a breath. I don’t remember the next few moments, but the next time I open my eyes I see my hands. I wonder what am I doing with my life? What significance do I play in this place? An instrument of the many things we do: Our hands. What are the first things to respond when I am afraid: My hands. The first to try and ease my fear. The physicality of my body is trying to keep me sane.
I tend to forget that I am not as alone as I think. What the many functions of my body has, tells me that I am only a fragment of a whole. What becomes of these hands at the end? I fear the day when everyone can survive beyond the limits of our flesh. The fundamental principle that these cells have evolved years to become better and better until we used them to design something even beyond them to escape to.
How unthankful the human species is.
How tragic it is that we exist.
My chest hurts from that panic attack. They don’t happen often but I do believe we are trapped forever in this prism of being.
I almost forgot, I punched the floor as though I could shatter said prism. It didn’t work and now my wrist hurts. This is incredibly unfortunate because, well… I have work in the morning.
I don’t think I should still be up to write this but I am. My head kind of hurts from the throbbing, though it isn’t a migraine.
When life is so simple and tidy, no turbulence to overcome or problems to solve, you begin to think about the after. What happens next. I am not suicidal by any means, in fact-- I tend to think I am very happy with my current situation. But that is just it. I am too satisfied, too content and too disconnected.
I am paranoid because there is nothing exciting about my life. It goes perfectly to plan and I wonder when the next big thing will happen.
But I often wonder in my bed about how we exist and that no matter what we do we are to have always existed and contained in whatever the fuck this is. Think about that with me. If we die, say we continue to persist. What end is there beyond the after? We are just forced to exist regardless of how we feel about it. I genuinely hope that when we pass, there is nothing. I could not bare to be aware of an unending time.
I darted up from my bed screaming ‘shit’ and holding my head, trying to keep it from popping off with how fast my heart rate spiked up. Again, I thought deeper into the idea. No matter what we do, we are to have existed and there stands the possibility that we will continue to exist trapped in the purgatory of a never ending space. It is frightening enough to have me fall from my bed, repeating vulgarities as I panic on the bedroom floor.
Then I stop, I take a breath. I don’t remember the next few moments, but the next time I open my eyes I see my hands. I wonder what am I doing with my life? What significance do I play in this place? An instrument of the many things we do: Our hands. What are the first things to respond when I am afraid: My hands. The first to try and ease my fear. The physicality of my body is trying to keep me sane.
I tend to forget that I am not as alone as I think. What the many functions of my body has, tells me that I am only a fragment of a whole. What becomes of these hands at the end? I fear the day when everyone can survive beyond the limits of our flesh. The fundamental principle that these cells have evolved years to become better and better until we used them to design something even beyond them to escape to.
How unthankful the human species is.
How tragic it is that we exist.
My chest hurts from that panic attack. They don’t happen often but I do believe we are trapped forever in this prism of being.
I almost forgot, I punched the floor as though I could shatter said prism. It didn’t work and now my wrist hurts. This is incredibly unfortunate because, well… I have work in the morning.
