Put the Dog Down
June 24, 2012
I don't know why they call it a Black Dog. Isn't depression enough of a cliché without giving it a mysterious name to hug?
Dysphoria. Name the damn thing as it is. I am dysphoric; trapped in a room whose pleasures are too many, stuck on a boat that I want to be rid of, rooted in a town that holds nothing for me.
Fixed in a body which isn't mine.
Self-indulgent tripe; the rain is tapping on the hull and all I want is to smash everything because it is self-indulgent. I'll even smash myself, given the chance.
Books, pointless. Films, engrained. Writing, stale. All these things are nothing compared to wanting to tear off this skin, this life and put it in the bin. Not even they recycling bin – just the bin so it can go to a landfill and rot, or a furnace and burn.
There's an insect in my room.
Posted with Blogsy
July 19, 2012 at 10:25 am
Your writing is anything but stale. I like insects too. Don’t forget the very best art comes from the deepest emotion. Use it. Wield it. Control it. Learn from it. You know you need to.
July 20, 2012 at 7:12 pm
That I do. I need the to build the stamina. It’ll happen.
August 10, 2012 at 3:36 pm
Strength lies within if only we can grasp strength enough to know and feel that. It’s tough. I wish I could click my fingers and have you here to share my garden for this afternoon. It is a lovely afternoon, with butterflies almost flocking and the harsh sun shielded by intermittent cloud. Hang in there gorgeous.
August 14, 2012 at 2:58 pm
Ever the voice of encouragement! You’re well on your way to becoming my mascot