Ecchymosis

today concerned friends told me, separately, that I haven’t seemed like myself in about a month, and they recognize that the insanity has began to intrude upon my thoughts again. I had some recognition of it, but learning it was evident to others made me a little embarrassed. That was not their intention at all, of course, it was only to express concern and desire to help.

“why don’t you want to be on anti-psychotic drugs?” Sarah asked, as she drove me home from an event on campus. I had told her: I ought to be on them; I know. 

But they’ll take me away from the experiencing the world as I do, and firmly ensconce me in reality, and I don’t prefer reality.

I should care about physical reality, I know I should. I suppose I ought to. It is the worst realm of everything, though, of anything I’ve experienced. It’s very limiting and based so much on what a physical body can do. If your physical body prevents you from living in the fantasy perpetuated by a dominant class, you’re already rejected from it. I was rejected a long while ago, and now that the insanity is not going away, I’ll be rejected even more so. So why would I want anti-psychotic drugs that would kill the insanity, make it wilt like a dying lily and crumble, withered, when all is just empty wind anyway? I was rich, I was poor; it is all empty wind. I was sane, I was insane; it is all empty wind. I don’t want to be forced to live a fantasy of someone else’s design. 

What is wrong with my design? 

Should I kill the insanity so I can drive a car? Should I kill the insanity so I can work in an office? 

Nothing is going to change death. It is like war. It will never end, so one must find a way to exist within it. Right now this is my way. But I cannot take care of myself very well when I’m like this. I’m all in my brain.

It is wrapped in old linen, it is sagging at the edges, and yellowed, the fabric smells like sweet peas and lilacs and sweat. And it is not my eyes that see anything, but my vision. Under white linen pinafore are black knit tights. Long long hair. Tied in a bow and the walls are unhewn. I see windows ahead, but what are they? 

I think I saw heaven a few times, or something that looked like it, looked like what I have read it to resemble; very bright, white clouds and sun.

Insanity is insidious, it spreads like ink spilt on a fibered cloth, forming rivulets and soaking into some parts; maybe you didn’t even see it spill. It is quiet. Perhaps if one’s head were a vessel of water, and a drop of ink were dropped in; the patterns are unpredictable and beautiful, but the water can no longer be the way it ever was. And that is meaningless. 

This will all cease to be, and will I change when I too, look down from the stars, placid? 

When there’s a grave with my name on it; perhaps I’ll still be here in some form. Will the illness be gone then? Will I die and reach ghostly perfection? Does insanity stay on earth when I go? Is that how I know it isn’t real?

Those sparkling eyes…eaten by worms. How can that ever be? It is. There’s no remedy for it. 

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