o why, why do i never think to come here, to say things. i know there are things to say. there are always things to say. i’m floating away, disconnected.
it’s six am, i’m not really sure why i’m awake, unless it’s the fact that i didn’t take a trazodone last night. i took a half an ativan instead, earlier in the evening. i feel snuggly and half-asleep. the pain hasn’t fully descended, though i can feel it gathering around my shoulders like storm clouds. an encroaching stiffness, a terrible, familiar restraint. jolts in my temples as if to say, you are not free.
i don’t deal with words as much as i used to. there are chunks missing, although i’m happy, i am. not that happiness is a binary condition. nor has life ever been, or will ever have to be, whole. i think balance is something we can only approach, never attain.
school’s okay, and it’s not. life’s more or less in order, and it’s not, it’s not, it’s not. i see a grey fog, five feet ahead, five feet behind, two feet to either side. i crave folding it around me, like that would make me real again, or more honest. a swarm of spiders in a game, the mention of an eeg, the phrase “energy work”, i don’t know, so much else, more: but it slips and recedes. i guess the fog is comforting, after all. if a wind came i would collapse. i can’t collapse, i do need school, but there’s relief and honesty in falling.
time is mutable and recedes from me. losing time is too abrupt a phrase. but i’m sure not keeping our time. it’s really good that people have been out, though. we stopped taking one of our antidepressants, celexa, and it’s hard to tell but i think we feel closer. the body has less buffer. and i think approachability is usually a good thing, especially with respect to insiders.
i’m not coming to a point, i’m not coming to a place. i’m passing near it in the fog, and maybe that is right.
