The emotional rollercoaster

Every day here, you live closer to the edge.

Boring, grinding sameness, over and over and over and over.

Frustration that randomly boils to the surface as rage,

often over seemingly meaningless events.

Finding yourself at the brink of tears.

And again with the grinding boredom.

Weird emotions drifting through your head, like unexploded

landmines waiting for prey. Like creatures of darkness,

gliding through the shadows, through the depths. Creatures

of darkness, creatures of teeth.

Finding yourself twistingly

jealous over your partners actions of more than a decade past,

before you had even met. Twisting poignancy, like the smell of

flowers on the desert wind. Loneliness mixed with rage, like

you haven't felt in so long. Isolation. Helpless longing.

Obsessiveness, playing games for hours and hours, working out

in the gym with a punching bag till your hands bleed through your

gloves and you realize you have to stop when you see the blood on

the bag. Watching every episode of every season of some stupid show.

And the fear. When a jet rushes by overhead. When the sirens go off.

When you hear an explosion you weren't expecting. The fear that you

will feel even when you come home, but then mostly at night, late,

when you wake and look at your watch, and lay, pretending to sleep.

The fear, like cold water inside, mixed with the adrenaline, and everything

so clear here, the colors so much brighter, the sun so strong you have to

wear dark glasses or you can barely see, everything razor sharp, and home

is distant, shrouded in fog, shrouded in death, like the mist in "The Others".

The frustration. When things don't go the way you planned, the way you

hoped, the way you expected. The bitter frustration, the feeling of

pointlessness, over little things, things that shouldn't matter.

The moon above, bone white. I've seen her from the side of a mountain,

and the moons of Jupiter, seen through a telescopic spotting scope.

The dust, hours after putting on fresh clothes, you hit your leg

and a cloud of dust poofs off.

The sky above, not a cloud in months, so blue as to bleed on the edge of black.

And you are so far away.

And the anger.

And the jealously.

And the obsession.

And the random lust.

ANd the loneliness.

And the boredom. Always the boredom. Always always the boredom.