. // THE INSOMNIAC'S CALENDAR. )

[sinensys]

under the thrumming weight of the heart in my throat, my tongue begins to slip back in vain effort to prevent from choking. as the tongue struggles to maintain order, my teeth are left unsupervised, and, once freed from the strictness of the tongue, begin their blind and vicious attacks. they have eavesdropped on the ear and brain's hushed whispers, picking up on secrets the tongue dares not know, lest it slips up and releases this sacred yet sacrilegious knowledge.

but the teeth have held onto these things.

and they have convened in silence with the jaw, the silent perpetrator, to prepare for the slighting connivance.

how hard i have worked to keep the teeth restrained, but how nice it is to let the tongue and then teeth relax, the skull's panic temporarily ignored and consequences forgotten.

[sinensys]

how fruitless our endeavours become in the grand scheme of things.

and yet,

how immeasurably meaningful these little things become in the face of such mindsets.

[sinensys]

staggered high pitched kick drums, like tournesol
so there i was:
stable rhythms, 808s, and key jingles begin
none of my feet on the ground,
the snow crunching beneath me.
a yell comes from my 10
and its echo sourced at my 4.
vocal chop yells, short release
suddenly:
gold surrounds me, and,
i am left alone with the flames.
medium 808s fill space
i jump.
whoosh and silence
and in that moment,
i am god itself
big 808s and space bass style, pausing for next phrase:
i am life itself
silence
and soon,
i would be death itself
big drop, heavy

and then, a distorted yell of victory/defeat

[sinensys]

i have vehemently denied the
kindhearted suggestions of others
but
perhaps
i could begin on the path
to exalt this thread
to pieces of paper
rather than
abandoning the notion
here,
in an obscure thread
on an obscure site.

surely,
the worst consequences
would be to
never use the name
h. skelter
again
and to
forget publishing work
for a little while.

perhaps, then, i will begin to
cure myself
of nonsensical
cowardice.

[sinensys]

i have turned a blind eye to the things i once questioned -- by focusing on the gallium glittering in my palms, i have forgotten the thorns restraining my legs. i am lulled by the beautiful fluidity of that gleaming stream of silver, how it moves in my hand with chaotic certainty and incredible surprises. i see it, and though it changes rapidly in form, i am not thrown to the upward spiral of doubt. no, i simply tilt my head in amusement as i observe the metallic puddle in my palm. i am content to label it with the name gallium.

and, by extension, i am content to label myself with the name pansexual. this knowledge came to me in a moment of clarity, and though i have questioned it, i know this to be true. i have stood in awe of men, women, and those between or beyond, and i have faced no internal rebellion, shame, or anarchy. i find my brow canting upwards in amusement as i observe it later, in my mind. the gallium is certainly interesting to observe.

but the thorns! -- i don't know what they are. they obscure the mirror beneath me, and they bind my legs to it. i would be honoured if the statue wasn't a sacrificial form with the intent to consume me as its crown jewel. i see them writhe at my legs and i fear for my mental stability. i have tried to speak with the vines, to listen to those crooked thorns, but they remain silent and resilient -- unyielding wires seeking a new frame to be encased in. i have shouted many names at them, before understanding better approaches and offering the peace treaty dubbed research. at first, it was content with what it found, and then it moved onwards, reaching ever-upwards for my skull at a pace i hadn't seen before. and so, i sought refuge in the gleaming puddle in my hand. and i ignored it.

but now i have resurfaced from my lulled trance to observe the thorns threatening my ribcage, whispering to my throat. perhaps i must whisper back to it, lest i become encased permanently into a monument dedicated to the indecisive gods beneath me.

i have found the name woman uncomfortable and accusing, yet the name man feels unreachable. that which lies between is vague and unpredictable, and that russian borzoi cants its head in confusion -- pronouns, what of pronouns? a russian cannot speak of their past without naming themselves femininely or masculinely -- but what will i choose? to choose the former is to fall to repetition, safety, but to choose the latter is to learn more about myself, at the cost of disrupting the norm at home for the others, and that is a risk i cannot compensate for at this time. not now, not yet.

i have cursed both moons for allowing such crossroads to imprison me, but i must do more to push back. i am tired of seeking answers and fending off fiends, both of the imaginary and illusory kinds -- one intending to follow, and the other intending to mock.

i am tired.

[sinensys]

and yet,
labels are just
words,
wonderfully malleable and pliant
beneath my skull's
projected brain waves.

words only hold as much
meaning
as is
given
to them --
they hold no
weight
alone.

perhaps i am
overthinking
as i always
do
and so all that's
left
is to continue
ignoring
the thorns, thrones, and thralls
that grace the walls of that
room
we call a
skull.

(i owe no one
an explanation.)

[sinensys]

as my skull
thrashes itself from the inside,
i am reminded
of the promises i have made
to the skulls i keep
on my shelves
and in my memories.

how truly disappointing
it is to know
that when the migraine
recedes,
so will my
memory
of past vows, promises, and contracts.

[sinensys]

as i feel myself cornered from all sides except left, i find that i am pressed into a solid, the space between my molecules wearing thin. before me lies the barricade of responsibility to my family, behind me looms that vicious weight of past threats against the once-loved thing i hate. to my right are the things that brought be joy, and solace -- art, friends, and learning (all kind, simply beyond my skull's reach). above me soars the maddening glint of an impassive god's disinterested gaze. beneath me lurks my own shadow, cast by the god's cruel hand -- outcast of peace.

i am all that is left. carved from pride and praise, marred with spite, i am left over from some unseen greater product i will never meet in the endless corridor bounded only by the refractions of my own brainpan.

will it ever be enough to be deemed an escape route?
will i?

[sinensys]

perhaps all i really am
is a skittish and flighty beast,
flitting between two states:
hyper-awareness and dissociation,
numb and nervous.
i do not understand
the concept of
physical contact,
but i would have liked to have,
in another world.
maybe.
i wouldn't truly know,
would i?

you may not believe me,
but i have glimpsed
a fleeting memory from the future,
and i have seen
a better way.
when i awoke,
i could not remember
what it was i had felt,
but i was left with
an aftertaste on
my crooked tongue
-- that taste spoke of
improvement
and newness i have
never even dreamt.

a scuttling fiend
is given a light
to see the paths
beneath
its lumbering mass.

[sinensys]

i boast self improvement and flaunt that unstable constant dubbed change, but i have failed to notice until now that there is more space between my rigid skin and the unsupported goop i call my insides. once again, i leave behind a mold for someone else to fill, hollow and unoccupied. i drain myself out as a thoughtless puddle into a jar, stacking it high into the farthest corner of the tallest cabinet, for sentimental safekeeping. never to retrieve and inspect, but always to think about in some dark hours and light minutes, equally.