I am not a bangus

How do I start writing when my mind isn't speaking. But feels an urge to write something. Hardest part of writing- the beginning.

Moving my phalanges,
tapping finger tips
like pressing on a piano's keyboard.
The red felt hammer,
that smells like vintage book in the library,
striking steel strings.
Strings vibrate at resonant frequency,
like my mind filled with unspoken words.

Been as good as an aging man with a sedentary lifestyle for a month or so, except that I go to gym on a regular basis. Sometimes when you're too free, you find yourself into reveries. Ideas float in mind. Longing to begin things out. Things you'd think could make life a better one. But I have left behind a few beginnings- unfinished.

I quit the volunteer job. Yuppies, stupids and ugly faces in the workplace were too much for me. Filled a nasogastric tube with air repeatedly, I had been into a trance. The school I've been working with for almost seven years is closing.

'Improve your social skills', a suggestion I got, with four other ears hearing it aside from my big ones. I did pull the corners of my mouth to appear fine with what I see but it's difficult to hide your soul. A partner can see your smirking fucking soul. I am not a bangus. To love someone, you get stupid and really selfishly stupid. You get nonsensically sensitive, because you are in love and selfish. And I was really stupid, bangus, selfish, and a fucking stupid that night. The heart dictated the actions, will clasp it the next time around and silently whisper- hush little bird, and sleep, please don't feel a thing because you get stupid if you do.

It's been a perfect annoying summer. As annoying as my friend reminding of my loan. I held my breath this morning before getting up in bed. But it's hard to stop breathing, very exhausting. Too crazy, getting stupid first thing in the morning. But asphyxiation can be as satisfying as Nagisa Oshima's In the Realm of the Senses.