Of this and that

I am discontentment.
I am perfect peace.

How can I just sit here and let things happen to me? I want to do. I want to be creating and making and using my hands. I want reams of paper to fill. I want paints that make colors and magic and brushes that simply act as an extension of my brain. I want fabrics to sew and monsters to make.

I am tired of this waiting I've been doing.

I want to read things that inspire me again. I want to push myself. I push my hair into a mohawk because, today, it wants to stand on end. And I let it do that. But really I want to run my fingers through it and then cut pieces of it off, snip snip snip, until they make it sometime somewhere something... else.

I am eating no animals. I am putting no toxins in my body, except the ones doctors feed to me. The ones that cause me to go back to the hospital in shock. Oxygen. I needed oxygen. No more.

This lethargy is unacceptable. I moon over the leaving of my home and the distance from my lover. I listen to music and try to find the thing that resonates. I am on the verge of falling back to this and that, or leaping forward.