Living In Dreamscape by Jasmine Stratton

When I was a young girl, I had a fear of mirrors
They were always broken / strewn to the floor
I was stepping over shards like gruesome egg shells--
a reflection of my internal state.

I would hold my breath in passing, a white berry-knuckled grip
as Bloody Mary sidled right below the surface.
Her presence kneaded at me like ringworms.
I didn't have to utter her name,
it sounded just like mine.

When I washed myself, dosing in lakewater and gasoline,
I hoped to rip away the blisters and reveal something more loveable.
I wanted to tear away everything
my eyes touched, whatever oozed contempt.

The blood was nothing but a manifestation
of acknowledgement tucked beneath floorboards.
I was a living, haphazard instrument of terror,
anxieties scuttling like rats.

But at least I reacted, unstuck from
the repetitive Jabberwocky dancing upon the grave
of my dreams, those American ice cream cone dreams
I was taught in Mind Prison.

When the stars shrieked through the windows,
I squeezed through the visual blockade
I poured my syrup in digital molds / pranic pixel escapism
cherishing silence, protection
from pyrokinetics and the mind body connection.

My avatar was perfect, the more life
I siphoned from fruit flesh, my joie de vivre festered
in shallow spilling adoration.
I relished like a queen in being (un)seen.

I Am The Worst of the Best

In the wake of these unfortunate events I am gracious for this journal. Having an outlet to reflect is helpful, even if I only have myself for reference. I remember during early high school I kept a physical journal as well, a crude and beat up book inscribed with various grim details that have still never left my mouth. It has since been buried away in my closet, and I visit it on occasion as a way of comparison when it comes to this type of "habitual" writing. There is more permanency in preserving a physical object, but I prefer the obsessive refinement of my entries.

Like back then, I am finding solace in myself. Last night I stubbornly settled down with the idea that I may have been stuck in my hubris a little too long. The entries of yesterday, in which I seethed with rage for my circumstance, lack any and all wisdom or insight. I think it is necessary that I know my place; I understand very little in the scheme of things. I'm not as intelligent as I think I am and I should definitely be a little more humble. There are people who are 10000x smarter than me- the self-sustaining academic types who become easily and infinitely immersed in their own research. I am not like that, and I will never be. I wish it were easier for me to just be content with that, but I have it dangled in front of me all the time. I don't want to be taunted by my shortcomings anymore. And I want someone in my life who is okay with that.

I think now to the tribulations of my friends that have (with no fault of their own) made me this way. I feel a hollowing disenchantment about Jatin, who has not cut me off but tarnished my trust with the devastating idea of it. That's one way to make me feel worthless I guess. I am stuck in the shock of almost losing him that it has actually become debilitating. I also feel inertly stupid talking to him right now. I can feel his frustration towards me and I fear I might fail if I ask anything of him. So there's that, and then there's the argument I am having with Amanda, who is demanding I open up to her about my mental state. She does not understand that she *cannot* understand most of what she wants to hear, and that if I disclose anything to her it would be a wasted confession. I told her I wouldn't tell her because I am not comfortable with it. Still, she is disdainfully pouting about my personal business as if she has a right to know, and as much as I can sympathize with her concern, her behavior is obnoxious. I think I'm actually in the right for this one, but it's stressful to think that we are on weird terms because of this. I can't just choose to respond neutrally to these situations. Both my heart and mind are telling me that I should be upset, and so I am. But there is tweaking to be done in my approach. Should I be more direct? More demanding? More patient? I don't really know, and so now there is growing to be done. Growth that leeches off the distress I feel and the distress that may be yet to come if things go poorly.

Desire be, desire go. I'm no longer manic to the extent of having my mind turned to Jello, thankfully. I can be a little wiser about everything now I think. Writing about it is a great grounding technique, even if the emotional toll doesn't necessarily subside. This place brings me comfort. After all, the one person I know who will never abandon me is myself. I'm okay being my own best friend if I have to.