:: Searching for Puck... ::

:: Tuesday, June 01, 2004 ::

Words seem to become ever less suitable for purging the coiling chaos of my brain and leaving me a swift and fragile peace.

I feel like an addict who has found that there are no drugs left to stave off the inevitability of reality, of the here and now.

I fool myself into imagining the crushing weight that every day seems to me is merely a temporary abstraction, a fleeting perception. It isn't. It is my life, as much as each breath I take. My periods of peace are the anomalies, not this ever-present dread. But, as much as I know that the sickness I have is a lifelong one, I won't take the magic pill. Rather I suffer like this then be at the tender mercies of modern medicine. Even with that sickening false boyancy they offer me, I will always know that reality is a missed dose away.

My mind is slipping at a regular basis now, additionally. I, by turns, forget everything and fear everything. My anger blinds me and tears at the world around me if one of my sore spots is touched upon. I fear I am capable of great violence or absolute comatose if pushed one way or the other. It is with great sadness I must finally admit to myself that, however misplaced the paranoia, I still can not fully trust the man I love, and live in constant fear or constant expectation that some careless shift of emotion will be the final blow to my ever-fragile trust in humanity.

There is truly no line in my life at all anymore. No two concepts even drift close to connecting, and there are ghosts everywhere I turn. Everything I touch is imbued with some harsh memory or imagining, some heartbreaking discovery about myself or the people I love, in this world and thousands of conceptual ones. I am a patchwork creature whose stitching is rapidly unravelling. I think equally about killing myself as changing the load of laundry in the dryer. Everything is temporary and harsh, killing and painful, dizzying and aching. I can't sleep, when I do, my dreams are of death, colored in blood - by no exaggeration. Sometimes I know them, sometimes I do not, but always there are the ghosts, those powerful and disembodied emotions for whom I am a moving gateway.

I want little from my life - and, now, perhaps, there is nothing I wish for more strongly than the man I love. He has slid from my foreground and into the moving pictures of my life, no longer an ally, set apart from the world as I am, but one of them now. He does not treat me unkindly by any measure - I just fear I have fallen beyond his reach. Is this how the others felt? Did my sickness drive Marco to strike me, and Jon to thrust me out of his life so suddenly? If only they knew what it is to carry the burden and be unable to escape it, awake or sleeping. I would give anything to be the supporter beside the afflicted, instead of the afflicted beside the supporter.

Gods have failed me, but I accept this. Nothing is to be gained by raging at those who deemed me unworthy of notice at the start. I am a creature of clay and ash, of leaf and rain - a thought, flash of light, and then oblivion. Beyond thoughts, feelings, the meaningless drama of a human existence, I remember a time before, and everything in me aches to return to it.

~Fox

:: Fox 6/01/2004 03:05:00 PM [Say what?] ::
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