| The truth; |
[Aug. 4th, 2008|12:11 am] |
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The truth; So, it's August. Or any other month of your choice, but let's say it is August. You decide to cut down a little, regain some long loved and lost control. So you cut down, just a little bit. It works. You are better, stronger, invincible. You are wonder woman on speed and steroids.
Then you cut down some more in September.
And October.
And November.
By December you are at 50%. You have found The Secret, you are superhuman. The laws of physics no longer apply to you. You get grandiose illusions of yourself. You must be special, since you can function like no other human being on half of the fuel.
In January you want to take a break, but your brain won't let you. Strange. Red flags go of, but apparently the part of your brain in charge for warning signs is completely colorblind.
By February you are at 35%. Snap.
March approaches, your movement feels slow, delayed. It might have something to do with your newly acclaimed blurred vision. Or how you have knocked half of your limbs blue and green when fainting. You don't see the point of anything, anymore. You have lost the sense of life, or at least living, it seemed to have slipped away somewhere, lost in a remote ditch, but you don't know where. You search aimlessly, trying to find the infamous needle in the haystack, trying to find meaning in your life. You fail your quest, your life is pointless. You overcompensate by staying busybusybusy. You create, you produce. It works for a while. At the end of March, you officially throw in the towel and stop trying, instead you let yourself being taken over by the great wave. You should have fought right there and then, you can see it now in retrospect. Everything turns black and white. All or nothing. First emergency room visit in the line of many more to come approaches. You can't remember it, but you have noted the date in your calender, so it must have found place.
In April your brain decides to turn on you and take it to the next level, and you go psychotic, hearing voices, having conversations with yourself and your menthol cigarettes at five in the morning. You fall asleep exhausted. You wake up after two precious hours of sleep with quotes from Freud and Nietzsche scribbled all over your body. You can not remember writing on your limbs. You must have, there is nobody else there. By the end of April, you are paranoid. You cling to your control, control control controlcontrolcontrol. And then, all of a sudden, it hits you - You have no control. You loose your hope right about now.
In May, you loose your will to do anything, you are in complete limbo. At least the limbo is safer then the destructiveness of March and April. At least you have that. You cling to it, mistake it for control. You do not realize at the time that it is just another double-sided mirror. In reality, what you are doing is silently waiting for all of this to come to an end. You relive the same day, every day. You don't like it, but you tell yourself to just stick it out, knowing that it will all soon be over.
In June, you find yourself wandering quickly up and down the deserted city streets, city lights still on despite the bright morning light starting to come up over the rooftops. You wander, aimlessly, night after night, to the early morning hours. You have already been out out walking for hours when the city slowly awakens with the summer morning sun, walking walking walking, always in a hurry, yet you have no idea where you are going, or even where you have been. You don't understand your own actions, yet you delete and repeat.
Within the timespan of twelve months you have eliminated everything you thought were contagious and evil and vicious in your life and in yourself, and you are left with a measly 10% of what you used to have at your disposal. You then decide that 10% is so little that you might very well make it zero. By July you have basically stopped your intake completely. Because of this, you have stopped sleeping. You feel a strong force trying to rip the life force itself - the pounding of your heart - out of your body, it is gravitating outwards and a bit to the left from the center of your chest, it can be described as quite an elusive feeling, you have heard it mentioned several times before by others, but experiencing it in your own torso feels different than any story you have ever heard. Yet, you strangely cherish this feeling, because, if nothing else, it is something that goes on within you, and you are aware of it. The last sign of being present, still being alive. You see, on most occasions you see yourself completely from the outside at this point, from the rooftops, from around the corners. You spy on yourself, like you would watch a movie or a car crash waiting to happen. You have lost the ability to see anything from the inside out. You walk walk walk, thinking that if you fall asleep now, you won't wake up again. Your heart feels funny. In fact - it has been feeling funny for the past six months now that you think about it, but right now it is another kind of funny. A more serious funny, perhaps. The pain has shifted from sharp pain in your ribcage to something deeper and different, which is hard to describe in words. You ignore it. You feel deattached. Instead you try occupy your brain with figuring out what day it is, what month it is, what year it is, what went so terribly wrong, and not to mention when. You can not grasp it. You don't recognize yourself, neither does anyone around you.
And now, this, 05:55, sitting by a laptop, writing long and fragmented text that seems to have no clear beginning, no clear end. August is right around the corner, and you realize a couple of things. You realize that this is, not sustainable. You realize that you can not change what you can not acknowledge. Hopefully, seeing the madness in writing will be enough to finally admit in a silent whisper to yourself: "I want out." |
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