Thursday, February 3, 2011
I know I suffer from slight depression. Left untreated it can become far worse, but with treatment comes the fog. All those cures in the form of prescription drugs meant to change ones mood so they don't feel anything, not one thing; nothing spiritually or emotionally, just the flatline known as "coping." My depression, left hidden, hurts no one. I can still feel joy in others triumphs and sorrow in defeat. This darkness isn't as bad as it appears on the outside. It is real. It doesn't hinder my expression; I've become quite delft at keeping it closeted. It will not kill me or anyone else. I can take it to my end game and none will be the wiser. Perhaps that is my skill - the artful acting that only I have mastered. It is my secret, left untreated. If others knew, if I shared this morsel with the one I care about most, it will only lead to treatments that hinder feelings. Feeling is living - limbo not the cure or anecdote. It is my personal possession that I share with no one except in my dream state where I cry endlessly and often, cold sweats, night tremors, living in the dark covering of night.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
"...kids were into dropping acid and taking on perceived notions of melting grandeur, if that makes any sense. It's as if they were trying on personalities until one fit. Unfortunately, their changing rooms were filled with misconception and nothing was one-size-fits-all."
I wish I had the edge to write right now. Alas, my muse has gone into rehab where I'm hoping it's learning to cope with reality on the same level as I try to, which doesn't always work out depending on who you ask. For instance, I wrote three manuscripts, all brilliant in my personal opinion, but the other side of life, the one that views things with a critical eye and bent for destruction, didn't see the beauty as well as I did. In fact, it was as if others looked at my works through a dusty filter or one with cut out shapes that should always fit and not challenge the creativity of those unknowing of what's good and just okay. The nail in the foot of my muse is trying to forget those whose corneas are cloudy and scarred. Alas, the muse is in rehab, just like Charlie Sheen minus the gut pain. Hers is a subtle ache within the center of her chest that lingers until the spring equinox, when all the tiny buds form fists and hold on until it's safe to bloom. She is a sheltered treasure with guts of a creeping ivy over a stone wall.