[insert emotion here]

i can feel it crouched down behind every pill. biding its time. patient. it's the strangest thing, like when you close your eyes and the black changes shape and form and colour... thoughts can do that too- emotions. just tingle across your conscience like shadows. like distant sounds. clouds you don't have to deal with. i can sense motions and activity. it's in there somewhere, just walking around.

on the outside i'm a little hazy. unable to assign words to feelings- unable to discern the feelings themselves. i don't laugh very easily. don't get angry for no reason and shout anymore. moderation is a strange gulp to have drunk. after breakfast i sit on a hillock and watch the ocean for a while. i have books but i don't read them. don't think. sit and sense the sun on my face. sense my legs, under denim, being warmed. occupying my body takes diligence. i try and notice the whitewashed colours. listen to the sounds, they are soo distinct. there is only silence in my head, no distractions... all i have left to do is experience moments. sit inside them and be enveloped in them. interact with them however i can. i try and archive my visceral observations. my senses.

time and space are troublesome concepts for me. constantly shifting and morphing. sometimes minor twitches, othertimes barren infinitudes. i stare at the waves and try to sense time. feel it travelling through me. try to feel it, like nibbly lip-kisses, or grapes beween my fingers, or my skin losing its elasticity. i cannot find a way to record this. it merely passes through my spread fingers. i am not saddened by my failures. at least it doesn't feel like sadness. it is a sort of shadow inside my head. a sort of ripple that's transmitted across the surface of an otherwise still lake. i am removed from these things. it does not feel like a heaviness. it is more like... someone breathing softly- but that is all. having no effect on you whatsoever. merely the sound of someone breathing, to themselves, over there somewhere. somewhere about the place behind a curtain. i see the shadow of these breaths. cloud like things. puffs maybe.

it is hard to write this. it is not interesting to me. thoughts and feelings that don't relate to tangible 'things' are not interesting to me. clarity comforts me. solid geometries. things that make 'sense' and have solutions. i feel robotic, and terribly proud to be. i exist somewhere where misunderstandings are called scalene triangles; and boredom is an obtuse angle. conversations are geometric sequences. hand-holding follows (generally) Maxwell's equations. people exist in this haze of missing self-awareness. i stand apart from them, trying to pick their locks so i can reduce them back into consistent forms. back into constituent shapes. the right things said in the right sequence with the right attitude. calm their insecurities. entice their better natures. whisper a smile unto their face. lock picked. now i can see who this person is underneath the electrical storm.

i am soo tired. (here that is modelled by a classical pendulum).
i find it easy to speak about recision of contract due to breach of essential terms- and impossible to describe first-kisses, or humiliation, or... it's 2am, it feels no different from 4pm. i cannot tell if the room is cold or if it's just me.

disassembly is such a pleasant word.