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Waiting For Godot

Posted Jan 28 2012 6:49pm
"'We are no longer alone, waiting for the night, waiting for Godot, waiting for...waiting. All evening, we have struggled unassisted. Now, it's over. It's already tomorrow."

I've been writing like mad and functioning like you wouldn't believe. Independent of Ginsberg naked joy within a sun drenched being of enchanted happiness, yes. That is one phrase for myself.

I ended the antibiotics two days ago. My current betterment however is independent of such matters and more so related to the work I have been completing (and the pills I haven't been taking). Inspiration is key to a life like mine. I hope to share it with you one day. For now, poems. I read poem after poem. It is like edible erotica of enticement. I become the poetry after a time and begin writing it myself. I've followed the Ginsberg route and am writing with candid intelligence (imbued by an pop shock) and because of this, cannot include it here.

Now, down to business: I have been taking Mepron, Azithromycin, and Minocycline for the past three months. In the beginning, stark mod brushed my neck and stomach with nauseous pain which enthralled my focus for quite some time. However, one month into the excursion, the pain subsided to a manageable level and I was left able to approach the possibility of greater creativity and independence (pauses to sip coffee). A further progression would reveal the soft petals of singular act, allowing me to accept anxious vows and dive into the pool of potential better refreshment. I ended up residing in a hotel room downtown for the past two days, leaving alone to enter the real world of the mall, and stomach the pain enhanced by the situation (pause to sip coffee). At first, fear ruled me. And yet, I plodded on for the sake of a new life with new pleasures, like that of lone people watching (and a self gift of cat eye sunglasses). I did not know the experience would alter the course of days afterward, but it mostly did. I nodded in agreement as I walked entwined with myself in a deeper way, capable of making my needs met to the public and doing them by myself.

On a creative note, I have begun a new program of stimulus. It has been strange as, when I began, I was taking two and a half capsules of Zyprexa per day (20 mg). Now, this greatly effects the capabilities of the brain and attached sub-mind organ. In other words, blankness of novicaine prescription. I beheld myself as a wretched lack in sense, degraded beyond the mind's capability to bridge cope. I felt blind. Yet, I plodded on with the daily exercises and tricks to boost emotional candor of self esteem. This week, the first in another case, is attempting to create a realm of safety within oneself. As I continued with my writing (daily poems, semi-short stories, blog posts, letters, diary entries), I noticed a reduced block and soft flow as a stream through my consciousness. The black had faded to grey and slowly, my capabilities were enhanced. I could write with flow again, not creativity however. Yet, as I continued, the flow restored its wealth of bulk and strode forth, confident, happy. Yes, happy. Affirmations churned through my mind, seemingly on their own. I am a brilliant writer. I am a beautiful person, and so on. My brain, which had been left as roadkill on the street of dreams, became aloft with churn and started to ride me. Repetitive brain function replaced that of my central voice and obsession overtook me. It was slow, but the Babesia based Psychosis returned in short, taking me with it a as a bull is rode through road of your consciousness. Slowly, I came upon the notion that the Zyprexa bottle remained as full as ever and that I hadn't medicated myself in five days. The creativity was the bull itself and the functioning mal in intent.

Both sides of the frac-en-thoughts are myself. This is the mistake many fear and desire. I simply need to find a way within both. I cannot live without my mind, even if it is diseased. I also cannot walk the path I traversed this summer regarding mental infection infectious instability. Like a dirty word with four legs and a tail. What I mean to say is, live (pause to sip coffee).

This past Summer, I suffered terrifying realizations brought forth by psychosis. It burned me, spurned all resource I had left. It began as mild OCD and grew gargantuan as I avoided all human contact. There was no one in my life who could have brought me back. It was only me, and my demon.

So, you see, I am at a crossroads. The sheer importance of my stability is at risk, but the quality of my life however is on the other foot. To have to choose between partial retardation and sanity is difficult for anyone. It is a choice that should not have to be given, but it is. The wrath of unseen forces is all consuming and cannot be seen with eyes. There is a line from either something or my own mind that keeps running through me: the fool has wise eyes.

Aside from this issue, I have been sporting a smile more than I have in six years. It is odd seeing it from that perspective. It has been six years since I was ever deeply happy, and now, fleeting as it may be, I feel it. I keep trying to tell myself that joy does not fleet. This is an assumption, however.

 So, I'm here, waiting. Waiting for the pills to kick in, waiting to be have my mind at ease. I've been fascinated for a while with the idea of the in-between: the drug addict waiting fifteen minutes for the pills to work, what is thought? It seems all I do is wait. But for Godot?
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