October 25th, 2007

Does it bother you that I’m up late, a ticking device of expansive anxiety anxious to go away? How do I do that? How does anyone tell you how to sleep? Or focus? Or concentrate? Or drop out of this dimension? All 35,000 feet of it, straight down.

If I could fucking sleep I’d be asleep. Pills do it for me. What do you do? Maybe I forget to slip myself 20 bucks before I nod off? Maybe I wander the labyrinth of a foreign airport, unconsciously anxious to catch the next dream wave before the white walls and gleaming floors evaporate.

Peter Kramer tells me in print that creative cracks in the surface of my overall well-being have nothing to do with the unpleasant boredom of depression. Oh really? I’m pleasantly murdering myself inch by inch while phantoms trace tattoos along the path of the under-medicated, muscular agony seething through me. Has there ever been a moment when I wasn’t alive? When I wasn’t this unenjoyable journey through the Universe that views itself through the hole in my eye?

You know the one. The hole you look through and out of at the same time.

All I know is that none of this has been the least enjoyable or entertaining. Pills, drugs, therapy, Zen buddhism. What more do you want? Shock treatments and hallways hollow with middle aged women wrapped in robes? Looking into the eyes of a saddened psychiatrist wondering what kind of game he plays when he’s all by himself? When he watches his eyes in the rear view mirror of his life sliding through another slippery winter.

Happiness? What’s that like? Not being the one as desperately in love as the other? Finding out who you are without even looking? Admitting your covert, consistant habit of hiding behind the next thought?

I know what This is, but if I tell you, It will make no sense to either of us.

So where do I go? Back to the locked side of your Reality for more tricks and treats? The unwrapped kind that goes down best with a glass of cold water in a wax cup.

I’d like my identities shipped back to me please. All of them. The ones I helped you prosecute without saying a word. The ones we so cleverly electrocuted every other Spring dawn in endless black and white weeks of risky executions. But I can’t send something back to myself that didn’t exist in the first place. And if you understand that, I’m grateful.

Because I don’t.

And frankly, it’s my fault anyway.

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