M (3:47AM): Politics have me tossing and turning. Their normal abstraction pheels personal. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon pulling my fingers through dirt on Facebook–worrying and wondering and trying to find the thing to say that says it all. I need to listen. My brain’s fragmented. I can’t get to the bottom of what I think and I’ve already watered the plants twice.

I know a bunch of kids who sell poetry for candy. In the abyss of their effervescent brains, they string dots of light in a way that I can’t; that my rational brain resists. And so, I’m stacking up on organic gummy bears and real fruit fuzzy peaches, and running a poetry mill that proudly exploits child labour. The kids think I’m getting duped but they don’t know the value of their brain synapses.

INTO THE ABYSS; POETRY FOR CANDY

“There’s a plane in the sky, how high?
Where will it go? I don’t know.
How...

G here: This post has been a long time coming, and we apologize for PHEELINGS’ temporary hiatus. We are alive. And, still deeply feeling. The explanation I offer up for our absence is the crux of this post: we’ve been busy building a home, failing at it, and eating Häagen-Dazs under the covers to cope.

There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors, walls and window sills
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust

This is a place where I don’t feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home

In Home-O P1 M theorized “home” as a space. He identified his wish for home to be a place of refuge where he can find himself “reflected on the walls.” Here, I conjure up a home in other people.

Jean-Paul Sartre’s famous discovery through No Exit is that “hell is other people.” I find myself mulling over the validity of this idea a lot in my head. Since no one’s ever been to hell and...

M: I need more than a place to crash, to keep some stuff, to stay dry, warm & fed. I need a place where I can be absolutely alone. Unwatched as I unwind and reconstruct myself. I need a place where I can synthesize what I absorb from the outside world, sorting through what parts I want to hold onto, while discarding the refuse.

I need a place where I can see myself reflected on the walls, as an encasement of who I am, what I believe in and where I’ve come from. In a world of unpredictability, I need the predictability of my personal puzzle; the organized material that codes my memory and sense of self.

I need a place where the chaos in my brain and the panic in my heart can be stabilized, counter-balanced with creative order; primary perks and plush downers. I need a slate that’s clean (cleaner than I can keep it) and somehow feels like me, while ripe with possibility for a new...

G: These pheelings you’re about to encounter mostly belong to M. While they are not totally foreign to me, I don’t suffer in their wake like he does. Despite my best supportive efforts, M’s darkness irks me. Living with one’s partner’s melancholia really does feel like living with a third roommate. Usually, I’m at peace with M; it’s these late night feelz I find myself wanting to strangle. They’re not funny like sarcasm or sexy like cynicism. They show up uninvited and are really hard to talk to.

I know better. I go to school for this shit. I do my best to listen, not judge; to receive, not manage. I am constantly upgrading my masculinity to be more collaborative, more vulnerable, and more sensitive. Still, it’s easier theorized than done.

Even on good days when M, his pheelings, and I manage to all get along, I fall asleep feeling cheated. Since I feel like there is no room in the...

M: I struggle with what feelings to share on social media. I wonder what the point is (especially when they’re negative feelings). Am I looking for affirmation or am I honestly trying to start a dialogue? Am I blowing off steam in a seemingly consequence-free realm or am I genuinely compelled to take a stand (that I would stand up for in person)? And who are my words aimed at? The choir of my friends or the dissenters hiding in digital corners?

(Oh, the trolls are real, people…)

And what are the implications for your feelings when I share mine publicly?

This weekend after the Orlando shooting both G and I felt compelled to say… something. I took to Facebook and he posted an open online letter to his extended American family. I think G’s more torn-up about what happened than I am, which is unusual. I think he feels closer to it than I do. Perhaps because he grew-up in the good ol’ US...

G: Hello, I’m G, and I’m not a sociopath. Although, I suspect I’m way closer to that label on the personality type spectrum than most.

While M gets accused of feeling too much, I am plagued with indictments that I am inferior in the touchy-feely department. Loved ones have accused me of being “cold” and “a little jerk.” My mom once exasperatedly asked: “do you care about anything?” And most recently, on my 29th birthday, M’s mom sent me my horoscope:

Your birthday chart is urging you to be more open about your feelings, especially if you are the sort of Taurus who sees showing emotion as a weakness. You don’t have to shout and scream but you do have to be more expressive. It will benefit you.

These consistent accusations make me feel quite crumby, and so I know I can, and do, feel. Like, I know I’m not dead inside. Nevertheless, the pressure to “be more expressive” mostly makes...