Waking up is easy but the second my brief rehearsed routine of feeding my cat and standing in the center of my bedroom wondering what to do next has concluded I begin trembling and feel hungry and nauseous and I stare so long the top of my head begins to ache.
I ate a bowl of cereal because I knew I was hungry. It was delicious and repugnant. So I walked over to the couch, got down on my knees and wept. I asked God for relief. I asked for ability to let go. I was clutching the afghan covering the cushions, pushing my fingers through the holes like they were eye sockets and I thought about forgiveness.
I don't want to medicate. I am not disordered. Everything is well ordered and falling into place. Every friend and every breeze bringing winter in further tells me this is all normal. I should not be ashamed. I am not ashamed I have failed and I am crushed.
If I felt nothing the problem would lie with me. My mind and body are not the problem. Don't worry about me. I don't. I have immense worries and I tremble for a reason but it is not for my own sake. This, I am told, has been the root to all the trouble however. An ostensiblly unhealthy view of love in a modern context. Looking outside one's self for satisfaction and comfort because although a person may be truly lovely and strong a person is not enough. I fear I may only ever love myself because no one else would desire to. For years I had enough love to sustain two people so I am entirely certain I have enough to love my mere self. That has never been a strain for me.
I am hungry again. A little shaky and a mostly uncertain about everything. But I now eating clementines and going for a walk.
2 comments:
I'm sorry. I would send you a bouquet of sharpened pencils if I had your name and address.
Come home, poet boy.
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