I always considered it a sickness and I did not allow it to be a part of me. I just went wherever it lead, tried not to ask too many questions, and welcomed the distraction. Then one day, I sat down in front of my typewriter (or whatever I chose to believe it was), and as I began to punch the words in as usual, I found oddly that nothing came. I looked around and noticed that it was calm. The same room And the lights above me spat out its steady white glow. I heard the faint echo of a ticking clock from down the hallway and I could not hear it stop. It was 1 am much too early for anything of significance to happen. No smoke, no flames, no music. And I couldn't for the life of me recall why I was there sitting in front of my typewriter alone at 1 am. Perhaps, I thought I never really did.
You don't remember exactly when you loose it or why or how. Quite unceremonious actually. But in time it hits you gently, when you're walking down to the corner store to grab some milk or helping your little sister fold up washed blankets to keep under your pillows. like a coat being lifted off of your shoulders as you're warm and drunk and leaning in to the firm, comforting grip of a kind stranger. Suddenly, everything clears although you're fairly certain that it shouldn't. You start noticing that you forget things so you try and remember what they were. You remembered later about your medicines so you took them like you were supposed to that night and the next night and the night after that. You remembered how breathless you felt after you hung up the christmas lights on the front porch with your mother, so you decided to jog 2 miles a day every evening to get back into shape. It comes to your notice once again that you are an arrogant, selfish *****, with a an astonishing capacity for ignorance, but this time you know exactly what that means and you find yourself writing down what you plan to do about it. And one day very much like today as you realize that you've finally made it, that the slopes behind you have already dissolved into nothingness, you will notice how difficult, how ******* painful it is to punch out these lines, this frail attempt at a poem to prove to a person that you are no longer broken and therefore you do not know who you are anymore.
The best ones though, will not come of sickness. The best ones you will do for a few dangerous individuals. For those who have told you to stand your ground. For those whose memories you are grateful to possess. For those in front of whom you have allowed yourself to collapse. And especially for those people who terrify you for what you might do to them and them to you.