Existential Mess

I hate this:
I wait too long to feel anything other than empathy towards other persons, especially if I believe I will fall in love with them. I stave off instincts of human thought such as admiration, infatuation, obsession. I sandbag against the rising tide or fill buckets of uncomfortable emotion, pooling it up in my conscious mind, as it drifts a top the dark sea below.  I toss it over the side once more, over and over again, until it is too late and I sink.
It is too late. I procrastinate.
I have no stake in this emotional claim. I should have nothing to feel when the news drops. I am intellectually prepared for this news, but when I hear it, when I know it, when I understand it in my mind, my body drops out.
My stomach drops and I curl slightly, trying, always trying to fight it, but the rest of my body still gives a little to my stomach when it drops in a way I thought it would never do again. I struggle against collapsing into a fetal position. Resisting fetal position is a very human and adult thing to do even when my body is telling me the is no other option: defiance to reality.
I can still think somewhere in my mind it is all in my head.
There is so many important things to dwell on and this is what I fall apart about?
What an asshole.
Another dream lost, it seems. I have so many dreams and visions, but losing one always hurts. I do not think it is impossible to find again, but I know I need to mourn. I hope this does not last very long, though I am aware it can. Doing this streamlines extended arbitrary mental suffering and it can ripple and rub other people, other persons, the wrong way due to limited imagination or perception of reality. BLAH BLAH BLAH!
Retreating to the fetal position is inevitable.
Oh, my pregnant head.
There is a reason to care
even if I am disappointed.
There is a reason to care
especially if I am disappointed.
It is okay to be angry.
Do something constructive with it.
Also, listen to Moondog.

Aaron C. Molden