Life feels barren. No matter how many plays I attend or hopes I cultivate, it falls to the ruin of this disease. There is no such thing as pleasure without pain.
Chuck Bukowski is one of my favorite, gun-shy poets. I came across a poem he wrote the other day called 'Near a Plate Glass Window'. The poem told me something that struck me with more meaning than when I had discovered it three years ago 'It is good to be sitting someplace in public at 2:30 in the afternoon without getting the flesh ripped from your bones.'
I sat in a pizza parlor and thought the same thing. I identify with ugly poets more than anyone else.
I want to stay here, in the cyber box, and stew. I have had a difficult afternoon preceded by a difficult, over-medicated night (i.e. 3 Trazodone, 1 Zyprexa, 1 Xanax and 4 hours sleep). People trust medication when they shouldn't. It is blind.
I am coming along, aside from this. Two months of antibiotic therapy have born symptoms of rank disclosure. The loneliness has crept upon me.
After the breakdown, I pushed myself to fulfill the wants I discovered there. I found the need for an external web that would not shatter when I did (and I believe the future shatter to be an inevitable in this case). Facing paralyzing anxiety, I wove relationships where tangles had been with family, friends, and professional support. Still, when I am unhappy, I seek isolation. I have for quite some time.
The other prong was of creativity. The breakdown was the most creative period of my life. This is where I am stuck. I have built a curriculum of subject matter, reports, tests, and etceteras to support this need. Still, nothing comes. It is the brain shackle. I am mercy to it.
Chuck Bukowski is one of my favorite, gun-shy poets. I came across a poem he wrote the other day called 'Near a Plate Glass Window'. The poem told me something that struck me with more meaning than when I had discovered it three years ago
'It is good to be sitting someplace in public at 2:30 in the afternoon without getting the flesh ripped from your bones.'
I sat in a pizza parlor and thought the same thing. I identify with ugly poets more than anyone else.
I want to stay here, in the cyber box, and stew. I have had a difficult afternoon preceded by a difficult, over-medicated night (i.e. 3 Trazodone, 1 Zyprexa, 1 Xanax and 4 hours sleep). People trust medication when they shouldn't. It is blind.
I am coming along, aside from this. Two months of antibiotic therapy have born symptoms of rank disclosure. The loneliness has crept upon me.
After the breakdown, I pushed myself to fulfill the wants I discovered there. I found the need for an external web that would not shatter when I did (and I believe the future shatter to be an inevitable in this case). Facing paralyzing anxiety, I wove relationships where tangles had been with family, friends, and professional support. Still, when I am unhappy, I seek isolation. I have for quite some time.
The other prong was of creativity. The breakdown was the most creative period of my life. This is where I am stuck. I have built a curriculum of subject matter, reports, tests, and etceteras to support this need. Still, nothing comes. It is the brain shackle. I am mercy to it.