It becomes increasingly hard to breathe
after each daily purge.
What was once associated with relief during illness
no longer carries those characteristics,
but has become absolutely interwoven into everyday existence.
If illness has to be part of existence,
then compounded symptoms unrelated to the ailment
are so much more than irritants.
Half of a work week does not pay bills.
Side effects state that you will be dull, confused,
tired, and increase the likelihood of mild nausea/vomiting
(failing to mention that mild was a euphemism for overwhelming).
The probability of obtaining disability is so incredibly low for
assistance of those suffering from this ailment.
Its hard to prove or disprove with medical testing as we are yet
unable to measure the chemical reactions (or lack of reactions) in our brains.
I savor the thought of a day when I can bask in the glory of good health.
6 days together
lying in a cheap hotel room while lying to each other.
Its something about a desperation to connect
that drives two zombies together
Or maybe its the sex.
I send you messages in French;
I write them on paper towels and mail them to you to express my condition.
You can't relate.
You know I do not speak French
and my continued existence irritates you so
I slink off into a quiet corner where I only have to be concerned with myself.
I'm confused and elated.
I walk in ovals and make sudden sharp turns.
Nothing I do makes sense anymore.
You say its the medication;
I say its perpetual calm.
I haven't felt a thing in a year.
I keep thinking maybe I have lost something that belongs only to me.
Sometimes I see glimpses of it and ignore it.
I am alone.
I miss the way you looked at me in the dark
even though you meant nothing at all.
French is the only way I loved you
and I lied.
It had something to do with laughing; its ben so long that I forget and the myelin sheaths have deteriorated to the point that the journey is farther than I care to venture. Straight lines had never been a habit of mine. So used to skipping rocks through the challenges I face that now, in the lee of the stone, bred of confusion and midlife crisis creeping up on my fragile youth, I feel safe and rest -- maybe indefinitely. I have not put a pen to paper in months.
Its been so long since my erector pili has responded on its own. I drench myself in the mundane and surround myself in a blanket of fog. I've been trying to climb out of this grave I have been lying in. Six feet is a long way to scramble and my brain is so scrambled I have trouble carrying out simple tasks. My sentences run on for days.
I find that communication and correspondence are lost arts. I write love letters to all of my friends and befriend people whose beds I can share. I'm a self-loathing, slow moving sloth of a woman.
My shell breaks and I peek out. This world so new, I am scared and lost. No one provided me with the map that seems quintessential to existence right now. If peeking out is as far as I can go right now, then I may have to force myself to explode. I can't think of a more efficient way to find myself in everything everywhere. One day I will remember that what I am doing now is not disconnected from the journey, but part of it. I am cheek-to-cheek and I can barely feel it. My plan of action is just to breathe.
I find I am most surprised by how simple it is to open closed doors.
