It’s a sick joke to call it an emotion, but disconnection is my least favorite feeling. Detachment, distance, and disinterest from the goings-on of the world.
My mentor teacher, a couple years older than my parents, had me over for a couple beers one afternoon. He, like me, is a Catholic who lost faith. A cluster of finches hopped about the yard, searching for food while we sat on his patio. “Look at them,” he said. “No thoughts at all, just following instinct like they’re part of huge computer program.” For a few moments, his worldview slipped into his larynx and came out in casual conversation, and it was cold. I knew the man just a little bit better, and I loved him all the more for it.
For my own part, I delight in birds. Most of the time. But when I feel disconnected, they are merely the irrelevant automatons my friend saw, and people are little more. They go through motions I cannot understand for all their predictability, and that I cannot influence. They hold no wonder. My attempts to help them, or teach them, or love them are meaningless because we all belong to the same void. This is the feeling of disconnection: nihilistic ennui.
Kafka wrote, “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside of us.” I’ve found that’s only half right for me. A book can warm the currents and make them flow rapidly, but when my sea is truly frozen, books do not break it apart. They take too much interpretation and require me to draw on emotion I do not then feel. Movies and music work best for me, preferably ones I feel strong attachment to and know well, because I’ll be on autopilot for the first while. Vertigo, American Beauty, Ikiru. The Smashing Pumpkins album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness works well, perhaps because it’s so overtly emotional in its swings from melancholy to nostalgia, anger, love, joy. I don’t feel like putting it on, but I do anyway because I’ve learned it helps. The swelling strings and choruses of “Tonight, Tonight” might start to work on me. By the time I get to the verses of “Muzzle” I’m usually feeling more myself again. The opening lines are anxious: “I fear that I am ordinary, just like everyone.” By the second verse, the attitude has shifted: “My life has been extraordinary, blessed and cursed and won.” That’s a better feeling.
Disconnection returns periodically. I recognize it, now, and before an evening’s over I can usually show it the door.
Your Name, Darling
I keep a notebook by my bed
For the thoughts that fill my head
When I’m losing sleep
These thoughts of me
I woke one morning to behold
Quick scribbled, a confession
One word written:
Your name, again, again
Now, as sad stuffs reminisce
I still taste your toothy grins
And consider when
You drew us holding hands
Tomorrow, I hope to think
A softer song to sing for sleep
Not your sleepy name
“Come home, Darling.”
The Girl in the Mirror
I sit in class, stomach in knots, for no reason other than the fact that I am here. My fingers twist together in my lap but are much too sweaty to intertwine properly.
I shake my head. But the storm cloud still looms.
I walk to the teacher's desk, my footfalls echoing in the silent classroom. Too much, I tell myself, just too much attention.
My voice comes out a squeaky whisper as I ask to go to the restroom, heart thumping. As soon as I am excused, I rush out of the crowded room and into an empty hallway. I let the desolation seep into my skin and offer me a little comfort.
To my surprise, the bathroom is also unoccupied. I swallow a gulp of my own saliva as I face myself in the mirror. Not myself, though. Just a girl. The girl who stares back at me is not someone I recognize. There was a time, I could tell, that she used to be pretty. But now, years of constant pressure and unwanted stress made her shoulders and eyelids droop. My Chuck Taylor's squeak on the bathroom floor as I take a step closer to her. She looks panicked.
Her face is round, but her edges are hard. Her face is littered in faded summertime freckles and picked-at pimples. Her eyes, despite the fluorescent glow of the bathroom lights, lack radiance. Dark lines fall from the corners of her lips. She looks as drained as I feel.
My breath gets caught in my throat, stuck and scared. Panic sweeps through me as I realize that I no longer want to look at this stranger in the mirror. I no longer want to look at the void.
I reach down to the sink and let the cold water drip from the faucet. I splash it all over my face, and yet, the fear did not go away. My heart continues to drum in my chest. I lift my head once more and face the girl in the mirror.
Her cheeks are flushed and wet with cold sink water. But she still remains.
when we broke up
I walk to my room and practically fall onto the bed. A million tiny shards of glass pierce my heart, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent myself from screaming in pain. So I do; and when it’s over my hand is covered in blood and I’m holding a razor blade, not knowing how it got between my fingertips. The blood trickles onto the floor and I bend down to the ground. With the blood as my ink I use my finger to write the word that best describes heartbreak on the floor: her.
it's hard to stay true to
the image i've made
when i can't remember
the first thing
i would gladly stay away
from the people
who think they
the willow knows its
leaves, every bark
and branch that
and then there's me,
weeping over an
I think emotions are experienced differently by everyone.
For me, Anger is heavy. Like a thin plastic bag filled with sand, just about to burst.
It sits in your stomach, weighing you down.
It's like pouring more and more sand into this already thinly stretched bag, but you keep going and going, until it just can't hold anymore.
That's when you snap, all of your sand just comes tumbling out. It's flowing so fast, and you can't catch it, you can't stop it. It just slips through the gaps of your fingers, as you frantically try to scoop it up, but to no avail.
My brain freezes, and I have no control. Words spew from my mouth, my tounge as sharp as a new blade; cutting people deep.
As the anger intensifies, I don't just see fire, I feel it. It burns so red hot.
My cheeks start to become inflamed. My eyes begin to prick with hot, weighted tears.
They fall from my swelling eyes, and roll down my cheeks, collecting at my chin.
I go silent at this point. I start to feel ashamed, and embarrassed.
I've probably hurt someone I truly love.
I can see their face falling, shocked by what I've said. I have probably more than bruised their ego, but profoundly wounded them. They won't forget this feeling.
I start to cool down, I can feel it behind my ears. It moves from the back of my head, over my crown and slowly creeps down my face. Gradually moving down my body until it reaches my toes.
I've made it back from anger, but the damage is done.
I can't take it back, only apologise and work to one day gain better control over my own emotions.
All is fine, but not is mine,
as dreams stilll haunt me daring.
As time goes, through highs and lows,
they come quick to mind, not caring.
Not blood, nor moan, would hurt alone,
as demons stand all glaring.
No thought will wane, while I’m insane.
My armaments I’m wearing.
They taunt me so, and will not go!
Their shrieks and cries keep blaring!
Now I’m awake, I scarce can take,
the thought of thier declaring.
We’ll meet again. I don’t know when.
And so your teeth, you will be baring.
This poem is about my actual dreams. Most, if not all, consist of monstrous nightmares with demons and creatures. I started having these dreams when I accidentally viewed a horror movie at the age of five. Since then, I have used my dreams to an advantage by turning them into deep and meaningful poems. This emotion is a combination of fear and satisfaction. It is just like that feeling of going into a, not so dangerous, haunted house, and coming out ALIVE! It's unrealistic and there is no real danger, but you feel as though putting yourself through that kind of fear was worth it because you gained courage. I have a very unexciting life. This gets me very depressed, but knowing that maybe I will end up in a world of horrors, chases, monsters, killers, and endless mazes, will make me more willing to go on. I am also glad that these dreams are so real (and that I am such a chicken so as to fear them more), because it means the excitement and adventure will be all the better.
The feeling of Being Content
Content is like a higher form of happiness.
More everlasting, less turbulent.
Content is for those who know themselves,
who believe in the best.
Being content does not mean your life is perfect.
It does not mean everything is now right and good and righteous.
It only means you are happy with yourself.
It only means that you at least try.
it doesn't mean that you are the first in the race,
It means you completed it,
and that is enough for you.
It means your happiness is not based on others,
on how they react,
on how many people are in your life.
Content is self-reflection,
and realizing that who you are right now,
the person you are with,
stuck for life,
is someone you are happy to be with.
Not a very possitive emotion. You feel such loathing for someone that it makes you almost want to muder them. You feel the need to point out everything they screw up because they do the same to you. You always strive to be better than them because you may not like the way the act, behave, maybe as simple as handle a situation. But this person you can't stand no matter how hard you try. Hatred is a very strong word, but sometimes it's needed to be used. But do keep in mind that this can offten get mixed up with disliking someone. They are too very diffrent things. Don't get them confused or you might say something that you regret.