boredom with self-consciousness

It happens

either intended or not.

Eventually,

there are these passages

that carry an internal clue.

I wouldn’t say

they’re epiphanies

but it is louder than a whisper

and you know

you are talking to yourself.

Every once in a while,

you can hear your last remark,

not for what is said

but for who said it to you,

inside of you.

You almost watch it go off,

like a remark sent

in someone else’s direction.

It looks back at you,

with a smirk on its I-said-it ass

and you know.

You say to yourself

from deep inside

“I am so tired of hearing myself

talk from that place”.

That place is so overused,

over done, it is a beat down

and is useless to me and as me.

Why do I keep investing

in something

that I know is not really

any essential part of me at all!

I could hate myself

for coming from there,

and I am really bored

with this whole projection.

I don’t like being that person

or saying what I do

from that person-place within me

or getting agreement from others,

to that person’s authenticity as me.

It is not I!

It does not take me

where I want to go.

It is unpleasant to be there.

It closes me down.

I don’t like finding myself there

again and again.

It is a loadstone on my existence.

I am suffocating from within

and don’t know how to escape this.

Life is moving away from me.

Everything becomes repetitious

and dull.

I am hurting

but nothing is definite or obvious.

I am a muffled compliant

with nowhere to turn.

I am terrible and well meaning.

I silently ask for help

by aggressively denying

all of this is in disguise.

I want fate

to tap me on the shoulder

and call my number

as if this pretend were over

and life could continue

in a rich and rewarding way.

This is death by halitosis.

This is the way cancers start,

alone and sorrowful on the inside.

If I had inadvertent tears,

if I accidentally found the words

and spilled my guts,

even to a stranger,

it would be better than this.

I am in a wax museum

and there are no flames

within reason.

There are no excuses

to pardon myself back to life.

I am tethered to an existence

that pulls me along,

that invites my hidden doom.

All in all,

everyone is well meaning

and this is all so interior.

I have no one to turn to.

I act out more and more

in small but peculiar manners

with little habits

of obsessions that clamor

as in time delays

of empty mental preoccupation,

feeling sick to stomach

but not really.

I could have the flu or something

but not really,

just vitality and gloom.

Sometimes I look out

into another person’s eyes

before me and they shine.

They have waterfalls

or are a tranquil pool.

They are fluid and giving

and I secretly wonder and yearn

was I ever that way?

Did I loose it or what?

God, I have to turn away

from them.

I want to be dead

and yet the real gift would be

to wake up to right here, right now.

Can I bottom this out?

Can I hit something hard

and recover?

I guess I call it boredom

at the very least,

and it is sticky and slippery

at the same time

and I am too preoccupied

to figure it out.

What appears inside me

that wants to help

only secures more of the same,

an eventual dissatisfactory taste

of false hope anew.

This feels like my road to oblivion.

If I had a purpose

than I am faking it now.

If I had friends than it feels like

they are beating me to death

by knocking on all the wrong doors

that open to keep me hidden away.

I am an unknown child of myself

and I keep myself hidden

for no logical reason.

But I do know more and more

about myself, day after day.

I feel tongue-less and invisible

in a self-conscious way.

I eat table scraps away from myself.

I never make a sound

but I feel everything profoundly.

I just, of recent, got a name.

I call myself me

and I wander inside this other person

who masquerades through my life

as me.

I am recently discovered

as a prisoner of myself.

I don’t understand

how this happened.

I keep waking up

to gags and restraints

but I don’t remember them

as demanded or necessary.

I have movement

but no apparent expression.

I scream and it is silent

in what I see before me.

If I am truly captive

then I don’t know how to escape.

I am watched all the time

by other places within me.

They report to I don’t know who

but shit happens

and I am taken along for the ride.

They present me as myself

but do other than

what I really want to happen.

I don’t know how

to fake myself out.

I am trapped inside my behavior

by gestures and speech.

I am obliged into activity.

I am engaged

in appropriate response.

I appear

to genuinely account for myself.

I am an exact replica of me

dying my life alive.

I am a suicide of not living it.

I am a straight jacket

of self-consciousness

and a callous of boredom

for working it now,

in a time warp of double-speak,

“how spontaneous

does this fit I am in?”