"Rain, rain on my face
It hasn't stopped raining for days
My world is a flood
slowly I become one with the mud..."
I'm drowning in a sea of momentary objects like a kid flailing around in a Styrofoam pit. Endless, bottomless, overfollowing.
My breathing is labored. My heart's become a slight murmur.
My internal compass is shattered and broken. There's no concept of coming or going, up or down, left or right. There's no direction other than what lies ahead;
Darkness.
It's density crippling, smothering, confusing. It's force like a thousand men fighting and clashing inside my mind. My thoughts weary and waiving a succumbing white flag.
Stop. Stop. Stop. Yet they do not cease, they do not back down only growing stronger by the minute, the hour, day by day.
How does one fight a war against themselves? My sickness has a home field advantage. It anticipates me every move, it dictates my every thought. Controlling my emotions, controlling my life.
They say we get wiser with age yet as my number grows my sickness grows with it.
A Mental metamorphosis from stability to insanity.
Not of a butterfly from a cocoon but rather a human to a shell. A life turned listless in a sea of tribulations.
I'm hollow. Obliterated internally by a mortar of a disease. My disease. A genetic defect that boils in my blood and hides within the shadows of my mangaled DNA.
My home lies in shambles like wreckage from a ship. Objects piling and scattered like carnage from a bomb. They're closing in, they're caving in, they're creating a wave a panic that's capsizing comprehension.
How do you escape from underneath an overturned life? It's crushing me, It's killing me, It's a deadly constant within the variables of time.
Death has an appealing beauty. Death holds certainty. Certainty that what is will finally become what was.
Past.
Present.
Future.
The past holding captive the memories of happiness. The present cultivating contemplative scenarios. The future an escape. The future harboring a fear so overwhelming it steals my breath and stops my heart. A paralyzing paradox.
Many days have passed since the last words written. My creativity under a powerful anesthesia. My mind on life support. It's wires and tubes intertwining and tangling beneath my body and soul.
How do you draw strength from weakness? How do you find will within a wilted ambition? How do you find hope in a hopeless exsistance?
