i have nothing (new) to say (still)

this is from march 2007. but it is today too. and my "current mood" is still soulless:

ocean filled marbles
The rage of seventy-three oceans are in my head, all compressed to the size of a marble. Like a black hole. Such an extreme of gravity, density, pressing chunks of matter the size of the earth into a fingernail's thickness. I am collapsing in on myself. My body thinks it's a fist. I keep forgetting to breathe. Even my lungs are clenched and knotted.

I am a song on repeat.

Always lost. Always angry. A construction of rage, using the same adjectives over and over.

I am a song on repeat.

I should have been an Artist-- channeling my pain into dark beauty. But I can't paint. I can't sing. I can't even find words to catalogue and dissect it. Everything I write tastes the same.

I am a song on repeat.

I can't even think of an original metaphor. The ocean? How trite is that? But nothing else feels quite like the tide knocking you over as it drags at your ankles. Nothing else I know has such a sense of power and such a lack of conscience. Cool wet choking apathy. It is the only truth that comes close, cliché or not. I can remember being very young and touching the foam on the waves as it melted beneath my fingers. This was before the Disney movie came out, but I'd read the story of the little mermaid. Dead mermaids become foam on the waves. There always seemed to be such an endless amount of foam. I remember feeling sad about all those dead mermaids, and also feeling sad because it meant that they all died without ever being happy. I would imagine the little mermaid standing over the prince and his wife with the knife, right before she kills herself. At age four, I thought that was really stupid of her. She should have stabbed that prince jerk. Plus, I thought stabbing herself was really melodramatic and needlessly painful. I suppose I was a lot smarter at four… So silly. As if a few drops of blood could drain out an ocean. I know it doesn't work, but it feels like it should. A pressure inside my skull that I ought to be able to release, like popping a blister. But everything, any and all attempts, just feed it. Just make the black hole denser. Me, stupider.

I am a song on repeat.

I used to "feed the waves" at the beach-- with my hands full of sand and anticipation, and i liked how the waves licked my fingers. I thought of the ocean like a hungry wild-animal, so i fed it sand to appease it. But it was always still hungry. Just like that marble still rolls smugly around in my head, untouched, and even if I were to smash my skull open and claw it to mush, I doubt I could reach it. I am a song on repeat.