Waiting

It’s 9:54AM, and I’m waiting.

For the meeting that feels six minutes away even though I have an extra fifty etherally uncounted for.

I have everything going for me in my future, all the joys internally awaiting for me here now and here then.

And still, pain greets me;

Not to take, not to torment, but to be;

To be felt, to be heard, to be honored

I am awaiting the opportunity to unleash agony building inside. Because with all that I rejoice, the thing that brings me most joy, my inner beauty endlessly expressed so gender fluidly, so many find a reason to hate it or no longer pretend to care.

This is my heartbeat on paper, not dying, but nonetheless healing and letting go.

I could, and shall promptly after this, just remember that these feelings are someone else’s, in this case many many turmoils of tortured, misguided human souls

“That’s their sadness”, I say to myself.

And it works! It lifts away, and lands back elsewhere, where it’s meant to be.

However, to release one must see.

And sometimes it isn’t an instant in a single blink.

Right now, I love this and cannot take it on anymore. I’m saying that about a lot of things.

About how I cannot in good conscience keep pretending that last summer didn’t happen; the good, the bad, the beautiful, the terrible; and beyond.

I am coming out again, coming back home to my dreams, writing all about it to my peers beyond paper, spoken words with my sibling who I call my sister.

I’m the sibster if not obvious.

The one person I have yet to tell from whom I feel so safe in maintaining confidentiality of my dreams, yet a wish that wants the landing of the news of my dream to be co-held with honor instead of fear, has led to appear to think backward from family therapy.

Granted, it feels like a tally checked, the therapist meets the intersectional groupings amongst the wheel of faux-inclusionary pleasantries: neurodivergence as nihilistically reducing the institutionally colonized as an irreversibly fucked up world; non-binary, yet a slippery slope into the conflationary avenues of medically assigned language.

I only beg for more gender anarchist advocates to mutually emerge from their shells in the contiguous land mass coined as the unanimously divided states.

By mine, not yours, truly.

Sometimes I feel to be a harbinger of secrets.

The same relative who does not know my most precious dream to be coming back home, is also the same relative who I cannot tell, but can likely gather if they have followed through or refrained from telling my additionally mentioned relative the news about a quieter double life so dry Mojave warmth can sooth their bones forsooth.

Sometimes it’s an honor to be trusted with one’s insides;

Intimacy between, intimacy within, intimacy beyond

And somedays I plead with myself, or whomever decided that reincarnation as a fresh start or clean slate was a good idea, to take this gift that I know that I surely did not ask.

I am grateful for siblingship, I am grateful for my dreams, I am grateful for downloading my focus and my relative existence into a reality of my own magical design within a world on an Acer Nitro screen, without the neuronormatively and gender essentially synthesized structures of complications with people.

Some would be shocked that a conversational natural never wanted to be.

I am a dreamer, a lifelong learner, I enjoy information, not incubations walking around.

I enjoy celestial bodies, and in certain spare instances of urges and indulgences, fellow sentient bodies, but I do not enjoy the emotional nuances of fellow human beings, even if I deeply understand them.

I enjoy being, and to enjoy being human is another question, even though many perceptively-oriented physicalists would argue that I’m a human being.

I know I am of agency, that I thoroughly enjoy embodying and enacting my free will on my dreams and my feelings.

But I can’t say that I enjoy being who many experts on fellow humans seem to employ.

I have less than twenty minutes before my meeting, a quarter of an hour and then some’s worth of material to write out purely for the sake of expressing my being and agency, and being further free in and of it.

What shall I write about for these last sixteen to fifteen minutes?

I could reenact the sinking of the Empresae of Ireland for fourteen of them using the endless angularity of my body I happen to be inhabiting, following to rapidly use the remaining minutes two to spree for the interview room.

Now that I have fifteen minutes ‘exactly’ though, whatever the minutuae of exactly mathematically entails, which I yet to curiously seek and study, I might use this to come back to my dreams and further home with myself, like I already have and continue to, before I let go of moments when I didn’t feel that way.

And as per usual, I desperately need to pee, which is quite a stark contrast to last quarter; or come to think of it quite an array of relative yesterday, or yesteryear, or yesterever

So while I momentarily perform this odd motion that more ‘comfortably’ Newtonian thinkers perceive as descending to use a restroom in which reflects how every restroom is innately demarcated as rightly free of gender, I will come back to thinking about my own techno-DND, every lead I’ve created gender free, with that perpetually plurally wholesome theme continuing.

I’ve come to sense how viscerally transparent I continue to be; viscera internally omnipresent as it is eternally everywhere, present anywhere but the very inventions that squander and encumber us, praised as surrounding us.

Ironically the following meeting would be emphatically of viscera,

A gentle reminder of candidly letting go rather than carrying away, listening over listing.

It is now 2:56PM, and with a bedroom bow beneath makeshift sheets, I really need some warm peppermint to alleviate my upset tummy.

I never knew crowds full of incoming normies could invoke such a catharsis of nauseating poison.