Maybe ADHD is just another escapist's dream, looking for distractions from this hell called reality. What's the next quickest thought out of here? A free ticket to get away from having to give a shit.

The real message in a bottle being:

((("Let me out!")))

This house of responsibilities is searing my soul. How can I feel so suffocated in a country supposedly free? What bullshit. Who'd even believe that? This Country Is A Marketer's Dream. Every Breath Uttered Gets Capitalized Against Your Will. slaves of society dancing to the song: "You forgot your Capital" by The Undertones. Choreographed not freestyled. Y'know, since it wasn't taught.

Can art be taught?

Not the 'free' part, but maybe the style. In a crippled fashion, strung up by salary, supported by crutches of cash. Pay up for your marionettist's money--your puppeteer's pity. They just might give it in grants. Though it comes with a cost.

About as Equal in pains as laboring over free poetry, when you really should be doing:

just about everything else.

Oop. Prose deleted the start of this. Damn. The audacity. Doesn't matter, tho, I'll give you the highlight of the paragraph I totally do not remember. Something awkward something something..

Anyway... Where to start. Not an easy question because what I'm gonna talk about is sort of specific? And sort of... Wrong? Oh, no, very wrong. Very, very wrong. I'd say I'm not a bad person... But I'm not exactly a good one either. Minimum level decent on the outside, I exist and I try not to hurt people and I try not to hurt myself these days, too.

I'm... Stalling. Okay, then. I wanted to talk about fear, at first. Because I am ashamed of how afraid I have been all my life. There's tons of stuff over the years of being a people pleaser... Not my fondest memories. But I guess the difference is that I'm not as ashamed of my fear because I do not hide it as much. Of course, I try to. But when it wants to come out of me, I don't often stop it. I don't pretend it doesn't exist so I feel less shitty about myself. It's always been there.

But I have layers. I'm still stalling. I'm still stalling. It's not a criminal thing, per say. I'd never do it. I'd never actually do it. In fact, if you knew me, you would never think I'd have that little thing anywhere in me. Except you'd seen me try to choke my sister when we were kids. Or that one time I threw something at my brother, hoping to cause as much damage as humanly possible.

I think the thing inside me that scares me... More than my fear of people and my fear of the future... I often fear myself. What I have dreamt of. It's a simple thing to talk about, really. I'm still stalling. I shouldn't have read the other post. But I did and it makes me feel... Worse? But you asked. And hey, since no one here knows me, since the worst that could happen is being further shamed, I guess I can try to talk about this thing that's lived in my head all my life.

I am not all softness. In truth, I don't know how much of that softness has been pushed to the front of me to prevent my otherness from popping up. Truthfully, I am also a violent creature. Warriors, soldiers, kings...

I've not only dreamt of my death.

I've dreamt of taking people with me? If that makes sense?

I don't want to make it poetic. I hardly want to explain it. I'm trying but it's hard because I've worked very hard to suppress this part over time. I pushed the violence into my fingertips sometimes, hurt myself to prevent the desire to do much worse to the person that wronged me. A desire only. A thought only. But one that gave me some relief when I was younger. Desire to cause harm.

I could tell you about the days I would imagine killing my schoolmates to pass the time in secondary school. I could tell you about that one time I "accidentally" murdered my Economics teacher in my mind, filled by a sudden anger I couldn't control over whatever stupid thing she said and being unable to look her in the eye since. I could tell you about throwing my father off a building in my head. Torturing this one girl in a silent vision. Even as I write this, I feel a peculiar kind of pain in my chest, telling me to seriously shut the fuck up. That thing in me has long been hidden. Talking about it is a general no-no.

I think it's my brain making up for how powerless I've felt all my life. Because I have. By my own hand, I deny myself the littlest decency. And something cracks a little more. So yes. When I watch shows like Hannibal or read a book like Native Son, that shit makes me feel something. When I witnessed Rhys Montrose on YOU, it felt like a bit of representation for my own thoughts. And I wondered and wondered and wondered...

I don't think I do want to kill anyone. I haven't got the patience or energy, I hardly give enough of a shit to get up in the morning. Murder is actually hard work. But I think the importance of my murder-loving side is to be a balance to that feeling. That I am nothing, that I am no one, that the world can walk over me a million times and I would smile and say thank you.

I recently wrote a seriously thorough murder fantasy-esque post on Prose about a certain roommate of mine, from the past. One that... Well, not to get into detail but she broke me even more. Amplified my discomfort around people with such tragic beauty. You see, after everything went down, I had to live with her for about a month. I had to have exams. I had to go to class and bathe like people do, I suppose. And I did. And I spent the entire time with her pretending that I felt nothing... But... Gratitude? I put a smile on my face and I let them do... Whatever they wanted because hey, fear.

Be afraid. You're supposed to be weak and meek and quiet and afraid; do that. Show that. You aren't allowed more than that.

I think deep down, I was scared to show my rage that day. It comes out in little bursts. I learnt, that day, that I would rather keep it caged than protect myself from actual genuine danger. That I would rather make the world an unsafe place for myself than risk letting that beast in me out. Risk showing that I, indeed, am capable of a violence beyond what I know. That I can hurt and I want to, sometimes. There is danger in my bones and I preferred to keep the mask of decent, good human than keep her from shattering me.

And it's been a year, now, since then. Thought I was over it and then I wrote that one post. It's funny how hidden I keep this feeling. It's funny how most of my self harm over the years was me needing a place to put the burning tar dripping down my stomach and not knowing where else to let it go. And it's stupid. And it's sad. And my vileness is a part of me that I am yet to accept.

I don't know if other people feel like this. I guess it's why I understood the Joker, in some way. Why I often relate to villains. I can understand that strange craving to let yourself go in such a dangerous, depraved way. It is such a small but important piece of me. I think if I listened to it and shook its hand, perhaps my violence and anger could be more than just a thing of shame. Perhaps they have better functions than sitting at the bottom of me like a quiet poison. But I don't really know what to... Do with it? Except... Keep it silent?

I wish I had lashed out that day. I should have. I've had multiple panic attacks since. I've spoken to family and had them... Well. Put it down as nothing much, let's leave it at that. I've done everything to brush it off, to make it nothing. And still, the anger remains, somewhere. Whenever I write about it, it still feels so foreign. I know it when I feel it but otherwise, it's so... Damn... Quiet. Safely shackled where it can't hurt anybody but me, I guess.

I was worried what would come next. Imagine. I had the power to save myself. I could have run away. I could have pushed her back. I could have screamed. Instead, I... Repressed. Instead, I went into a little corner of my mind and turned myself into that mask again, that ever-agreeable puppet robot with no feelings, only a "yes ma'am whatever you want can-do" fucking attitude. And I did it for someone who meant nothing to me. Because I worried about what my violence might do if it finally got to be free. If I finally let it drop from my fingertips and leak out of my skin through a more physical way than writing about it.

I began this silly little essay afraid of what people would think. I end it... Reminiscing. Feeling it. It's weird how I personify my emotions, sometimes. My fear likes to live in my chest, the most. Sometimes it enjoys spreading to my hands, just for the fun of having me shake. My need for solace is a pounding in my head when the rest of humanity gets too loud for me to exist among them, anymore.

My anger is deep in my stomach, somewhere. Forever lurking. If I hadn't taught myself that it was something to be ashamed of, I would have hurt her that day. I would've gotten ahead of myself and been lost to the feeling. I would have felt alive instead of being killed. I wouldn't have let myself be so fucking powerless. It's the most powerless I've ever felt. I was truly reduced to nothing. I'd always been scared of being so drowned in that feeling of utter worthlessness but my imagination never taught me what it would be like. Regret tells me I should have let it out. As does shame, the same fool that tells me keeping it in was probably the best choice.

I don't know what to believe. I don't know anymore if I should be ashamed of something that has spent its entire lifetime with me trying to make me feel better, as misguided as it... Usually is. I used to hate myself so much for existing. Hate it. In the tar, I tremble, I sink, I drown. And I love and hate the feeling a little too much.

I don't know what I've written or why I wrote so damn much and I guess I'm sorry but I guess I'm really not? It's itching at me again. I can feel it. That damn memory triggers so many of my emotions all at once, it's kind of incredible, really. Weak, dangerous, who cares? I'd rather turn my fists to my own chest than show anyone that thing. So it's fine. It'll die with me. But when it wants to rip out, if there's good reason, perhaps I'll let it next time. Self-preservation takes some head-bashing sometimes, I think.

Okay... That's all, folks. Judge me, relate, be confused... Feel as you wish. This was a lot more pouring than I expected. Don't know whether to be concerned or pleased that at least some of the black has been scooped up, splattered on "paper" far from the home it has carved for itself inside me. I am fucking exhausted, now. I feel delightfully ill from this level of oversharing, my forehead feels hot heh. Goodbye, stranger. I could pretend that this wasn't true, I could delete this before any random eyes descended and took a glance at this strange, usually buried piece of my soul.

Oh well. I am one self-revolved delusional fuck to think any of what I'm saying means anything at all to anyone other than me but

I am who I am.

And that won't ever go away. Don't even think I want us to, anymore.

We're stuck together till death do us part, me and myself. Might as well... Shrug and vibe with it, I guess.

Ps. Swearing is the best, sometimes. Je t'aime, merde.

I had just exited the restroom when the clamoring voices of several young children filled my ears. There were four of them. They ran wildly, everywhere. I scanned the area, certainly a parent is nearby; surely they cannot be just unattended like this…

Then I saw her. She weakly reached out toward her rambunctious brood, mumbling softly and incoherently. In a tattered carrier strapped to her chest, a red-faced infant wailed. The woman had a haggard look about her and dark smudges beneath her eyes. Greasy hair kept falling in her face.

Then a forlorn, guttural noise escaped her mouth. She suddenly fell back against a nearby wall and slowly slid down to the floor. She began to weep loudly. Her sobs and howls joined along with the squalling infant on her chest. She and her baby became a symphony of human misery.

She was partially blocking the walkway. A few onlookers spoke harshly to her as they stepped over her legs:

“Don’t breed ‘em if you ain’t gonna take care of ’em!”

“Ever heard of birth control?”

“Oh, give me a break, lady…”

Fifteen-year-old me looked around.

Someone should help her…

I looked around awkwardly for an adult to offer aid. I found not one friendly face, only strangers’ expressions of shock and disgust or averted gazes.

I’m just a kid. I don’t know what to do.

Maybe she was a single mom… Maybe she was simply overwhelmed… Maybe she was suffering from postpartum depression. I will never know exactly what was happening with her that day. My point is, it doesn’t matter the circumstance. I had a chance to be a comfort and blessing to a stranger and I opted out.

This is where my shame lies: my inaction. Even if I was unsure what practical help I could offer, I could have (at the very least) sat there on the floor with her. I could have let a hurting person know they were not alone on a bad day. But I chose to turn and walk away, with an empty prayer on my lips that help may soon find her.

I could have been her help, her comfort, her answered prayer… but I walked away.

I will carry this shame with me always.

In a realm where words hold sway,

Where poets weave dreams in elegant array,

Imagine a gathering, where Prosers unite,

Bathed in the moon's soft, ethereal light.

They gather, souls adorned with ink,

Breathing tales and rhymes, a symphony to think,

Their minds, like gardens, lush and wild,

With metaphors blooming, emotions compiled.

Some wield sonnets, polished and refined,

Their verses a dance, rhythm intertwined,

While others embrace free verse's embrace,

With words unbounded, their thoughts take chase.

The air vibrates with linguistic might,

As ideas collide, and passions ignite,

Each poet brings a unique melody,

A tapestry woven with creative decree.

There, a wordsmith paints images with verse,

With colors unseen, the world they immerse,

The vivid strokes of their pen's creation,

Capture hearts, stir souls, in endless elation.

A balladeer strums a lyrical chord,

Serenading the gathering, voices adored,

With melodies forged from love and despair,

Their voice, a balm, a respite from the wear.

Haiku poets whisper nature's grace,

With brevity, they capture its fleeting embrace,

Three lines, a moment, a snapshot in time,

Revealing the beauty that words can't confine.

And in this meet of Prosers rare,

Boundaries blur, as they deeply share,

Their stories, hopes, and secrets concealed,

In sacred verses, silently revealed.

They find solace within this enchanted space,

Where words can heal, hearts find solace,

United by language, their souls intertwined,

A tapestry of dreams, so divinely aligned.

So, let us imagine this gathering so grand,

Where Prosers entwine, hand in hand,

In a world of poetry, their spirits ascend,

A symposium of words, that shall never end.

She squinted through her glasses at his quiet, studied form, taking tiny but significant steps across the garden. It didn’t take long to get to him. A polite cough chirped out to catch his attention but he didn’t look up and over at her.

Despite the cloud of smoke over his bent head, like a grey halo, she sat a few feet away. Ten seconds later, she shimmied the skirt of her long dress with her across the length of the oak bench, even closer.

He breathed a deeply impatient sigh, and eventually looked her way.

“Hi again”, she whispered.

“There is a comfortability

to the madness.

A numbness I have always known.

This is me –

this girl you see.”

Though in a woman’s form she is presented,

she just cannot fashion

a life in this way.

She does not mature.

She cannot fit into form to anything less

than a raging meteorite –

one that is barreling down

an unknown, erratic path

towards the crux of humankind.

Her pain is magnificently great –

a grotesque malformation to her being.

Never can a smile ever wash across her lips.

Never again, it seems.

Grief had come;

and he had stolen away the remainder of her hope.

Her mouth sewn shut,

so as not to expel anymore toxicity around.

And they had placed a scarlet veil over her face –

the repulsion of her ugliness

could fracture even the most confident of jewels.

“How can I be of an unnatural creation

without having a source from which to come from?

Just who is my creator?

And who the hell is to answer for my universal burning?”

Oh, her sacrifices have been great!

But if without a purpose,

was it all then just a cruel trick of the hand?

Her moments now rattled in

seclusion;

isolation.

Hibernating away from an uncaring world.

How ignorance turns the heavy hands of time.

A loveless life bestowed upon her,

yet the purest of beauties pulses through her heart.

A saddened widow of a soul –

her place cannot be found.

Confusion turns to insanity

as a dense nothingness overwhelms her senses.

Desolation.

A dreary fog of depression consumes her -

swallowing the humility,

the dignity,

that she grasped so tightly to

for such a long time.

Her light is growing dimmer.

Is this now the end?

The Falling,

from her barren place here on earth,

stings like a damaged nerve.

She is a menacing nuisance to their conformity –

and is now deemed an unnecessary stain.

Hip Hip Hooray,

Here comes the best story ever!

We all will meet, we all will write,

Once we get together!

Some are typing, some are writing,

but some of us are blocked

Twirling pencils in their hand,

trying to unlock the fog.

Some stories are so funny,

and some of them are not.

and some of them are scary,

we like all of them a lot!

We wake the city up

by sharing all the news

we even write the music

and that includes the blues!

One clue

Riddled or two

A man or a lady

No matter the foo

Thank goodness for my boo

Giving me the idea

These great minds conjure

Too slow to process it all

Thank goodness for recording it all

Bonjour

"Why so down?"

I perked up at the sound of his voice.

"Just thinking," I mumbled. He slid closer to me, studying my face to find what was wrong. His smile lifted my mood. The way that it was so soft that it seemed fake, yet was so real.

"I dunno, love, I guess."

"Love? What about," he asked. His eyebrows perked up in question, like a mischievous child.

"Not to sound like a faux-philosopher, but I've just been thinking about if love was real. If it is, why does it take so long to arrive for those that long for it." His giggles sent shivers of joy up my spine.

"That seems pretty philosophical to me. I think that it takes its time because it needs hope. You can't have love if you don't hope that it's there, even if you can't see it. Just because we don't see something doesn't mean it isn't there. Some of the most wonderful things in the world are invisible. Trusting in invisible things makes them more powerful and wonderous." His words were honey and sweetened my brain as I listened. It all was covered in silk from there. We showered each other in affection. His love was my fuel and mine likewise. At his touch, my world became a paradise. His palm was gold and I could relish in the small touches of my love, that showed more affection than stars in space.

OK. Now that Batmaninwuhan and I have patched up our differences we are taking ourselves to task of configureening the proper space craft. And we're almost done.

It's made of plastics: Polycarbonate siding, polyvinyl sheathing, polyehtylene wrappers, polyeurethane varnish, and other polymers tucked throughout in the crevices. All recycled. Plus styrofoam and elastic. We recycled/ reclaimed/ reused/ and reduced everything ourselves. Still fresh but not tacky. I think...

As a satellite myself, micro pocket size, I am pouring over the details in the electronic wiring, while Batman is ramming together the final parts of the Prosedotcomnik Rocket Launcher Model ABZ: Whisper-2000-the-Better-to-See-U-Clap-on Clap-Offer.

It has a livestream webcam in front behind and on all sides in and exterior. Fish Eye, and surround sound. It's going to be a spinoff to the Prose YouTube channel, maybe...

Procketeer itself is shaped like a Blimpie and has a megaphone to announce us to on-coming traffic in case anybody misses us. We're THAT big.

Batmaninwuhan says he's not sure if anyone wants to onboard, actually, but the thing is just about ready, and I have confidence so I'm calling in some newbies for support:

@CharlieWrites ...to test the feel of the walls and to check we got the upholstery right

@Wilmer ...to check if we are traveling far enough to matter...

@Celeben ...to bring and help decipher the cartograph....

@HandsofFire ...to help us find imaginary creatures!

@tinad ...to help with settling live entertainment

@RamonElCamino ...to look out for the void or voids or voided

@CinnamonWhistle ...to find what's missing in outer space

@Benife1999 ...to bring extra SPLUNK-1002 study material

@Valtunk ...to keep the butterfly diary

@CoreignHoff ...to Haiku the trip when it wraps up

And @ChrisSadhill we really need your help with the celebrity guest list.

To be sure everyone at Prose is VIP welcome!! Please let me know how we should stock the refreshment bar? what music, what bonus equipment, comfort objects, or your preferred seating, who next to who? bring a friend or two...

We have like 144.7 K seats in here... and Batmaninwuhan is buildering an addition.... or maybe it's just his private compartment??? I dunno...

In any case we're heading up, and who knows what we will find? or see below?

There will be lots to write home about, of that we can be sure.

05.03.2023

ProseTrip Challenge @ChrisSadhill