there is a test i need to take, though i don't know if i can handle the result at this point in time. i have no idea how it may change my life when treatment is semi-complete. calculated potential to replace faith in the face of apathy; i feel bitter.
how strong a person must be to hold objective observation and hope in one hand.
there is a standard way to behave when one is ill, which is ridiculous. this standard breeds a pin tucked response, one of small footholds.
if all are a mix between calculated response and organic reaction, then how do you define manipulation? identity? individuality?
i feel as if i have played a character for years, a grid pulled over my skin like a sheet. when 2 dimensional character meets equation, she becomes animate. she lives for you, eats for you, dies for you. she buries your faults in salted wax, begs you to lick at the wick with silent reverie under a microscope. heat, she says, heat, though the slick of your tongue prevents fire from enshrouding the cycle.
i do not trust myself under the implication of this nouelle vague viral dimwit (shameless, lovely rhetoric without destination or purpose). the label changes much, how odd. the label, a strict coersion in word play upon the graph of the industry, can still touch this moment while fondling the next.
well, let me put it plainly- one month ago, they found a new tick borne illness. it is viral. it has been around for quite some time. my doctor believes me to have it. there are things i can do to keep it at bay, though it can not be murdered entirely.
this possibility frightens me. the thought of being sick for the rest of my life while having been sick since i was three makes the situation feel hopeless. sometimes, i sit alone and question whether i truly desire healing, whether i deserve it. often, i choose to go without psychiatric medication, without pain killers simply because the pain enlivens me, whiddles me, makes me feel a sense of purpose: self destruction.
i have always been a passionate person. it is hard to say that of me now, though i still fashion sacrifices of myself for the sake of creativity. this is how i pulled myself through high school, at least one right of passage.
even more plain- if i have the virus and learned tomorrow, i do not know if i would choose to continue treating the illness. this is honest. this is what i feel. suicidal isn't the word. the desire for suicide used to lap at the sands of apathy, though now i sense them to be upon separate layers. this is why such passionate weight can be heaved by the desire for total obliteration while also maintaining care in the shape of a cracked egg shell.