if you've nothing nice to say

There wasn't anything special about today, except that it was the day I realised that part of my heart is ugly.  And that made me want to start the day again.

Sometimes I get so boxed in my own head, I forget other people have their own box of hopes and disappointments inside their heads too.  Sometimes I'm so used to being on the outer, I think that no one else could possibly understand what it's like to be me.  Except, that's a load of crap - because everyone understands - not me personally, but themselves - they know what it's like to have a bad day, a depressive moment, frustration, anger... the list goes on. Maybe they feel it less often than me - but that's beside the point, isn't it? It's not my job to tally the scoreboard.

Some days I feel at odds with the world and other days I think I just expect to be. Maybe I've done such a good job telling myself no one cares, I don't matter, that I've just gone and talked myself completely out of the game.

Some days, like moments of today, I open my mouth to say something and even as the words hit my lips I know I've done something wrong; I wish immediately I could take them back.  The good part of my heart has a conscience.

Perhaps this is a side-effect of unhappiness?  You try to rush the words through your mouth in order to get through any given moment faster, and instead of being measured and mindful, your syllables are critical and biting.

While on the treadmill today, the little toe of my right foot became squished inside my shoe. It had never happened before, why should I expect it to happen today? Fifteen minutes, thirty minutes persisting - finally the shoe came off and intense pain shot through this little, insignificant toe.  Thinking about it, I remembered the role of pain.  Imagine if I'd gone an hour more, squashing and distorting - what then? If I didn't have that feedback, telling my body something isn't right here, I might've gone and chafed that toe right off.

So maybe three years too long in a job that's unrewarding has strangled my spirit, and that itching unhappiness I feel is my nerve endings begging me for a change. I guess if I didn't feel this way, I might just sleep-wake-eat-sleep my way through another thirty years, before someday snapping and driving a pair of scissors into someone's face.

So, maybe 'pain' is good.

I just wish I felt like a better person.  I wish I could be all the imaginative things I always hoped to be, and I wish I could make sure I was one of the good influences in this world, instead of the sometimes 'other'.