The dark days arrived in slept through storms and sudden thunder, a little more lost and forgotten every day. The mind slowly paints itself into a corner, banishing the world stroke by stroke. Each limit bristles and bends against the imagined canvas, the brush tense and giving, the color a diminishing of bandwidth, a slipping against the light. The mind gnashes and seethes, ready to lash out at everything, attempting to extinguish these smoldering feelings. Black cloud, blue sky-- everything seems the same.
Pains breed and pleasures die slowly in the corner, ignored and abandoned to the passing tense. It is a sickness of heightened awareness and intense omission, moods steely and vulnerable to the least unsettled breeze. The mirror offers up its cruel opinions, the light always pressed with ache and dust. I escape briefly in the ardor of difficult reading, the limits that grieve me some small respite. The tangled brain momentarily ceases devouring itself and I forget myself. There is some slight sanctuary even for the useless and the perverse.
Stare into the grimy glass, listen to the groaning walls and the wailing wind. Stare a hole through this thing made of light and contempt. Stare straight into the bottom of the reflected lie. This sickness is never about victory, it is all about endurance and mitigating failure. This sickness is written in the chemistry of my thinking, it is sunken toxically into the depths of my made-up soul. My own dull dead eyes, lit without light, function without utility. My slack and graven visage more caricature than face, a limp and bloated cartoon of comic lack and lament. All these thoughts diving down. Everything the color of lead or steel.
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