Not really. Just something that popped into my head when I was thinking about how I was woozy from bad sleep and didn’t feel like writing right now.
And it struck me as funny, So I thought I would share.
Today is nice and slack. Tomorrow is Tuesday and I have Doctor Vaezi at 8:10 in the fucking AM. Next day is Wednesday and I got Wound Care at 11:45 AM. Then on Friday I got Caswell at 11:40 am or so.
Who knew being very ill was so much work? I wish I could just check myself into a hospital, go under deep sedation, and be woken up when they have fixed everything.
Might time them a long time but at least I would not be making Julian drive me around to all these different places any more.
I know you don’t mind, dear Julian. But still.
But I suppose you have to be very rich to get that kind of treatment. And if i was that rich, I would also have a big burly Scandinavian dude named Sven or Ole to wheel me around in a wheelchair and be my chauffeur and to help with all my… personal needs.
I’m TALKING about my PENIS. And also my BUTT HOLE.
It’s a very pleasant fantasy. Being sick would be way easier to take if I lived a life of luxury that included both limousines and getting a deep and thorough dicking.
I’m so damned horny.
I am sure I had a half dozen really good ideas for what the blog about earlier. But now I have forgotten them all.
But you know what? Those are all just pages in a book. Moments that were sufficient unto themselves without any nee to outlive their brief lifespan.
Maybe it’s enough to just watch them come and go like ocean waves. To stop trying to stop the wheel of life as it turns and instead let it spin however and wherever it feels.
To stop feeling like I can create my entire life… clearly I can’t.
And to therefore stop holding myself responsible for everything… that can’t be true. There are so many factors beyond my control.
And I can’t very well seize the reins of power when my depression leaves my mind too cold and numb to even be able to feel them.
I feel like I am in a constant state of fulmination as I am trying to bring myself back to life and learn to open myself up to life’s joys an sorrows and everything else.
It’s so god damned cold in here. I am sick of being numb. I hate the icicle teeth constantly chewing on my petrified hear. I want to live and feel and love and hate and have big arguments with people and experience conflict and frustration and all the rest.
I want to live, dammit.
But life won’t seem to let me.
More after the break.
The other 500
Wow, the previous section ended up being exactly 500 words long.
Which is particularly ironic given my “500 words of HELL” bit from the title of this entry.
Well, 500 down, 500 to go.
481 now, in fact.
Let’s get going.
Springtime in Siberia
I’m feeling somewhat better today.
Dunno why, but it’s possible that for me, happiness only comes when I have completely exhausted my capacity for depression and despair.
Which makes me wonder where said capacity comes from in the first place. Is it just a matter of frustrated energies and unprocessed emotions? Is the main action of my depression simply to burn through an accumulation of emotional debris?
Seems almost insultingly trivial given the emotional weight of what I go through, but it nevertheless still be the case.
Certainly makes a strong case for getting up and moving around more rather than remaining a lump in a computer chair whose brain has to put him through ten different flavours of hell just to deal with the consequence of his sessile lifestyle.
It means “unmoving or fixed in place”, like a barnacle. Look it up.
Action is not the enemy. Repeat until believed. The goal of life is not to completely avoid all forms of effort. That’s a deadly dark and depressed way of looking at things and is the exact opposite of the sort of life-affirming growth I need.
And yet, that intense anti-action bias remains. Just quietly contemplating living a more active lifestyle – even one still confined to this apartment and involving no actual exercise – chills me all the way through to the very core of my heart.
And that’s no good.
Once more, I am faced with the conflict known in some way to all humans at one point or another : knowing you should do something doesn’t make you want to do it.
Or even make you capable of doing it.
The resistance within me is so very strong. This pit of eternal winter in which I dwell is deep and dark and deadly and so far, I don’t have what it takes within me to generate the kind of stellar heat it will take to overcome all that cold.
But I am gathering firewood and testing my lighter. Some day the amount of fire in me will equal then exceed the weight of all that ice and I will have my springtime.
There’s going to be a hell of a lot of tears that day. Happy tears, sad tears, tears of relief, tears of shock, tears of pain, tears of joy – all will fall like rain on the first day of the springtime of my heart.
The air will fill with the sounds of ice cracking and crumbling, and groaning under its own weight as it falls apart like an iceberg in the Sahara.
And there will be a cool breeze filled with the complex smells of generations’ worth of memories thawing out at the same time.
And big gentle shudders will shake the land as its permafrost melts into a rich and ancient clay. fertile from the life unlived dissolved in it.
And I will stand there naked so I can feel this new sunshine all over, and I will be filled with a joy that includes and flows from the simple innocent eroticism of a child and radiates out into the world in joyous waves of affirmation and exultation.
And all shall be made clean by the waters of the pure, and I will be born anew.
And all will hear my humble and sincere “Amen”.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.