Posted by smokeymadison on December 23, 2004, at 21:02:25
After the hospital:
What is left after the storm?
A few fragments of a former reputation, fragments of former friendships are all that are left. After the storm the gray dawn finds me drifting along the shore in the thick mist of consciousness. The fog is heavy and smothering. But the cold does not let you forget that you are awake, even for an instant. I am painfully aware. But I still see nothing distinct. Nothing can relieve my inner torment. Staring into the languid waters, I stare straight into myself. What has my life been? Is it just a lie, or a game that fools play? It must be. There I was, staring self-destruction in the face and what do I do? Revert to revenge on the male species. I am supposed to call Ryan at the hospital today, my first day out. Maybe I will just tell him to go to hell. It is where he belongs. Anyone who would go under a girl’s clothes in a psych ward deserves to go to hell. He took advantage of the fact that I had a manic reaction to the Zoloft. He was willing to play the game that is killing me. He does not care. The counselor at the hospital, Dwight, was right. So very right. He told me to stay away from Ryan. I still marvel at his skill in getting me reigned in, letting me pace around and around that courtyard, keeping step with me, refusing to let me lie to myself, to say that I have no idea what happened to me to mess me up so badly.
The air is humid. My paper is wrinkly. It is first period. I am just sitting here. What a waste of time. I cannot concentrate on anything. I told my friend, Liz, everything, all about the rape and the abuse in my past. What did she expect? She came very close to crying. There is nothing for her to say. The pieces have fallen down. My image lies scattered in the dust of former aspirations. I am only a ghost of my former self. I am still drifting in the mist. But now there seem to be ropes tying me to an indistinguishable shore. I do not know if the people there even care to pull me in. They tried for so long, when I was still fighting the storm. The gray dawn persists. I am so tired. There is no cure for this.
Just let the white face bleed. Why the hell does it matter? How else will it all pour out? Just let the pain drip steadily until it stops, and I am white. Completeness. Total nonexistence. The days are long and hard. I want to close unto myself. Cocoon. Wrap me in the white fibers of silk and let me slowly dry out. Let all the moisture escape until there is nothing but a husk. The husk of the bumblebee is golden.
I know how the story ends. I know how every story ever written ends. I know how it begins and what conspires and how everything all comes out. There are no stories left untold. Everything has been done. Everything has been imagined and written and painted and spoken. That is what all of this is. It is everything in the past and everything that will be in the future and it is all right now. On the brink, what is left but to fall into eternity? It does not matter how or when we die, we all do, and we all will. In the spectrum of eternity, what matters? Our morals are our sense of self. Our rules are comfort in the chaos of the universe. We are but packets of order that fight entropy to no avail. The elements that sustain life are life. The snake is swallowing itself. I have nothing left to write.Displacement
Measures the worth of a solitary life
Among the atoms of existence
Swells the potential
For the high shrill at the rim
Around the wet mouth
The lips suck in air
Gulping reason in defense against the onslaught
Of self destruction
Overflowing
The crystal liquid pours incessantly
Priceless.I cut both of my wrists. I watched the bottom of the bathtub fill with blood. Then the blood stopped flowing and I fell asleep on the bathroom floor. The next morning I awoke.
poster:smokeymadison
thread:433477
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20041210/msgs/433584.html