02/13/12
To my ever dear, and dearer friends whose very Selves—in spirit and in truth always overwhelms me with your singular kindness, as I find in you a comfort and a most reliable pleasure and surprise, and to my readers, who—slowing, in their increasing numbers—humbles me and makes me glad; to those hidden in the cybercloud who—perhaps—in reaching out, discover some, small help within these lines; for all I give my most sincere regard and, yes, love, after my fashion in acclaiming you, I always, in my furtive, mumbled prayers wish so much for you, and thank you, thank you for tolerating my soaring flights of gladdened thought, and who forgive me, when my soul’s waxened wings fail to sustain me in my hoped-for flight away from this seemingly unnatural despair.
I fail, and in free fall, drop past this earth’s core to immerge from out the other side…in China ?, as my heart as would a confluence of cosmic rays, pass unhindered through the magnetic magma, proceeding almost into space, again.
II
I awoke—again—too early to achieve what one might hope to be a sovereign sleep, with rest sufficient for the coming day; some earlied time before, the Morphine’s every atom was used up, and, yes, it IS quite possible to awake to monstrous pain; anxiety; incontinence; and depression. To find myself, again, far from home base ( which ordinarily would be one’s bed ), away from warmth and the reassurance of my little, stuffed zebra, bed companion, which uttered not a sound, having been found lying face-down on the pillow next to me.
III
I dozed off and on at the kitchen counter: why it has become a secondary place to land, and to wake from, I have NO idea; but half-awake, I—like some errant pinball—glanced off different countertops, looking first for pain pills, and from a spare Klonopin, in hopes to ease these rogue feelings of depression, fully admixed with tiny vollies of panic attacks, and stood there, still wet, waiting for coffee to heat up, and meds to work, to do something, as I mumbled out a weird concoction of scattered prayers.
So rushed were these supplications, and so disjointed as would confuse the very Deity to who they were being said.
Can a more merciful God decipher such a litany of confusion, wherein I begged Him to lift my resounding headache, and my chills; my thousand pains, my sadness, and my sorrow ?
IV
I once recall a now lifetime ago, how once I seemed to spring from my morning bed; outside, the air seemed more refreshed, and the streaming rays of morning sunlight scarcely kissed my unlined face.
And I felt strong, restored to juvenile strength, and would throw the covers back with great production, lunging—almost—to my feet, to celebrate—perhaps—the day, and whatever wonders it might auger; and even if the day turned into shit, I had sufficient youthful blustering to conquer all.
V
Now my home bears silent witness to a lesser self; the kitchen lights are too bright, and hurt my eyes.
I reach with a robot’s arm and hand, to gather to me all my morning medications, for illnesses and complaints that, even twelve years, ago, I would never thought of; now, they are as natural as my pulse, and to some large extent, these pills scatter through my day, and are as marked as any calendar entry would be.
My fears manage quite well on ‘auto-pilot’, though I know that they are there.
I did, finally, change my undershorts, but as this morning is a ‘shower morning’ for me, I need to save clean clothes for after.
And…my cousin is due to visit me later in the morning, so, for that visit, I must at least be clean, and in clean clothes, and…somehow, must be more pleasant, not as sleepy or as tired while he’s here.
VI
Somehow, my dear, sweet friends, where did that certain sense of happiness go ? Did it simply evaporate from my incontinence, or dribble from my hurting, swollen legs and feet, now swollen a couple of inches above the knee…not good.
Or, did the pounding of my headache scare it off, by drumming it away ? Or did somehow this state of depression, and panic, and anxiety cast a too-dense fog, obliterating the newness of the day ?
And will—tonight—I have to break down, and wear Depends, whose patented crinkles at the thighs cause chaffing, and, since they are made of plastic, feel too hot again my skin; maybe that is why babies cry, from a general discomfort; to that can reasonably added that at fifty-eight years old, I need their presumed protection.
VII
I am so tired, and sleepy, now, though I cannot go back to bed, as soon my C.N.A. will be here, from cold outside, to help me shower, and don clean clothes.
Subject to a change of heart, I promise myself a nap when my cousin leaves around 2:45 PM.
And so, my dearest friends…I suppose I shall close for now, wishing you—if I may—a quiet and peaceful day, free form distress or pain; an afternoon, thus spent in pleasant recreation, and evening and glorious nights…oh, the very night that alarm me, be but for you, a peasant ending to a pleasant day, with a natural tiredness; sung to a blissful sleep by angels
As always,
I love you dearly,
‘Zahc’
