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.
Thank you for existing.