iggy

Watching broken hearts from a distance makes me long for one of my own. Everything looks so much better through rose tinted glasses, even sordid love affairs with fine china and dexterous hands. I would prefer to cry in the spaces between caustic bones rather than on an Italian leather sofa. I want my caravan back.

Occasionally I feel like a flat gray line. Something out of 'Flatland' maybe?

I picture myself cuddled up with a broken heart. It is soft and plush and pleasant to touch. It tells me exactly what I don't want to hear and it is damp from tears that have already been spent on it.

Chord progressions tell me more about myself as I create them more than any one person could. Though maybe if everyone got together their words would equal something akin to The White Album.

Sometimes I feel like a piece of stale bread in a duck pond.

I am usually blissfully unaware of all of my motions and everything that I do. I operate purely on instinct most of the time. Every now and again though I become painfully aware of myself and what I am doing. It feels like suddenly being poked with a stick in order to rouse my sleeping body.

The doctor said that so far my heart looks okay. He is still doing an electrocardiogram in a few weeks because there are some things he said that can not be detected with an ekg. I know I am alright, I just don't know why I am still having panic attacks with the medications I am taking. It's a mystery I tell you, a darn mystery.