Outside of time
It seems like years since I’ve written, and it seems like only yesterday, and it seems like I could write forever on everything, and yet, somehow I’ve nothing to say.
In the beginning, there was the Mother - Night, not just the night that comes before the dawn of day, but the First night, of primordial chaos, that came before the dawn of order. The great Mother, night of Chaos, gave birth to order, gave birth to the worlds, to life of infinite variety, and so that they may have sight, she took her own eyes, and hung them to create the sky, and shattered her vision into the infinite array that became the celestial blanket enveloping all her children, all her creations. From the nothing, came everything. We all suckle at the breast of paradox, we come from the void, we come from the union of microscopic origins from the mother and the father that preceeded us, and that mother and father, from the mothers and fathers that preceeding them, and evolutionary scientific theory that before that mode of sexual reproduction, it was just the Mother, splitting herself over and over again, but the Mother, from where did she come, she was the something in nothing.
Just rambling
I’ve nothing new to say, so why not start out with something like the above, something old.
I’m tired.
I feel like I always have so much that I’m doing, yet that I’m not really accomplishing anything. Or, I feel like I’m doing nothing, really, yet, life seems to go along on its merry way.
Playing the lottery for Xmas - it’s the major gift Wolfe and I decided to spend on this year. Tickets for the local Millionaire lottery that the proceeds go towards the Childrens hospital, we bought three tickets for 250$, if we win something, wonderful, if not, at least the money goes to a good cause, probably better than us just getting more ’stuff’.
Not sure If I’m going to go do the family thing for Xmas this year. Part of me wants to, but a big part of me just wants to stay home. Actually, what I’d really like to do is go set up a tree in the park here in skid row, and hand out presents to the street people on Christmas. I think that would be the most fun, not thinking Wolfe would go for it though. It would make me feel good. I don’t think I can get that joyous miraculous wonderment out of anything personal for christmas anymore, except for maybe winning that lottery, but maybe I can make the magic happen for someone(s) else. Spend whatever we have extra, if anything on fun yet practical gifts, and just hand them out, to whomever, and wrap up anything we have that we don’t need and give it away too, why not. It’s really what I’d like to do. If I had any real motivation in my body, I’d love to organize a group of people to do that with, get people involved. Unfortunately, my depression leaves me with a lot of apathy when it comes to acting on my ideas. My mind keeps busy, my spirit soars with ideas all the time, art projects I want to undertake, deeds to do, excersize and diet programs to follow, the ideas for growth are endless - the lack of movement towards accomplishing any of it, is as static as the goals are dynamic. I’m still trapped in a biochemical fog, loaded up on anti-depressants that just manage to keep me stable and somewhat functional. I’m emotionally closed off from myself, impotent in my actions, and the anxiety that is kept tucked away behind chemically induced walls, comes out in my sleep, where I revert to the childhood nervous habit of picking my nose. Oblivious to my actions, I awaken in the morning, my hands encrusted in dried blood, a trickle running from my nostril, and the taste of blood heavy on my palate, like I’ve been sucking on an old copper penny. Disgusting. Numb, my morning ritual involves the painstaking process of removing dried blood from under my fingernails, where it clings like the devil. That and trying to clear my sinuses of the long slimy plug of blood and mucus that has coagulated in there, trying to clear it without triggering the bleeding again. I’m paranoid that if I leave that huge clot up there it will rot, or flies will somehow lay eggs within - irrational, but then, that’s the ever present little edge of insanity that rides with me in my tamed anxiety/depression state. The little dark cloud of nasty thoughts, unease, fear, and sometimes just silliness that likes to dance around the more common place rationality. I’m mostly sane.
Mostly sane, but mostly lost… still trying to figure out, how I can find that thread to pull me back up to the world of the living, instead of trying to claw my way out of my numbed anxiety and depression coffin, that leaves the inside of my nostrils a mass of scabs, and the pages of my journal, all to empty, most of the time.
I’m still here, I think.
Sometimes though, it’s better worrying, and bleeding, that not, at least I do know that I’m still alive, I taste it every morning.