Meta: There were some intentions I’d developed half-heartedly, though their outcomes were deserving of all that much more. I had made various agreements and bribes by which I hoped to venture ever forward. “Limited” progress be as it may, I’m faced again with the starter’s choice, but I feel like t’would be best left for the morning. “Left for the morning,” along with a few, um: “tips”. For instance:
- Smile. Not too easy, I know, but so important.
- Letter to Other
- Description of physical entity (aka I)
- Intentions and desires for that future timeslot
This is something. I am someone..eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Meta: In the meanwhile, another sunrise has passed the horizon, and the band of light, that scrapes through the side of a narrow curtain, paints a highlight across the bed and over the body of the (was) sleeping protagonist. He, of course, has since woken, although he is still shaking off his recent mooring in the land of sleep (of which, the sand that encrusts his tear glands is an incredibly singular and unarguably, relatively, minor effect). “Now,” he says within his most private confines, “Let me try again.”
Now that I’ve taken that ticket to Xanadu, I need to take advantage of my capacity (or: force through my incapacity) towards all manner of goals, but in particular, r those that will benefit a future Shai most definitely.
- Instructions. I can leave instructions and also recommendations. The first of these is to smile when things are unwell. Even if I don’t feel like it, and despite its limitations (i.e. it won’t end human trafficking), I should do it as a first step and so potentially as a foundation to problem-solving.
- I had considered writing a letter to (a/the) Other. “Now,” I start, I have already written something (via physical formats). “Hmm,” there I had started making some progress in a surprising direction, and amongst my considerations is whether there’s much value to be gained in copying letters from there to here, but then also, whether I should continue my efforts here regardless of what means I use to preface here or to link these two.
- I am (etc). Step 1. How do I feel? Step 2. Keep writing. This is definitely important! (Vital).
This was the last point I had noticed last night, and there is a joke, because I think it might be an example of itself. This is an intention or desire for future time-slots… Appendum: The thing is: This includes another class of things (one I’m struggling to delineate, but suffice it to note) that they include such trivial importance as shaving and hygiene.
Now it’s a matter of sojourning back and forth across my mind’s landscape (who fantastic impressions are the outcome of their place of residence, aka this world!) So: Look at all the flowers. Let me pick and choose at life’s experiences (this, here, that, is one of my most precious rights). So…I’m a…gonna….start with number number number two duo bi… OK. Let’s see what happens when I unroll this carpet:
Right now I am physically somewhere between icky, and ok. I want to get present/current out of the way because of how much I want to describe yesterday/before. Now: I have the hollow-eyed and -belly feeling from sleep deprivation. The issue with sleep is not so much the amount, but the quality, which in turn is devastated by repeated interruptions. Other than that, the only thing I really notice is a somatosensory “scrunched-up” feeling, and which I think right to attribute to my sleep patterns as well. “Now”. Which is to say, “Yesterday was a bitch and I got to Ix-press.” Ok, let’s go. (All these procrastinations are also expressions of how hard I am finding this particular task, nonetheless, I shall achieve…) Ok. (All these “Ok’s” are platitudes, intended to motivate me, “Come on boy, good boy!”, and fill in the gaps of my hesitations). Ok. Let me try that again. (Let’s try something different – I’m taking myself, this laptop, and a cancer stick outside). Ok 😉 And after which, I’ll go inside and scrape some of this course fur off my face. I reckon I’ll feel much better after having had that! Ok. Coming outside now…
Now: This must be unrestricted and confident. I am talking to myself. What’s more. If anyone were ever to read this, that would technically be fine too, insofar as I’d have nothing to be ashamed of and in fact, everything to be proud of. Because god-fucking-damn-it, I put up with this too, I have persevered past this too, and I have known colours of suffering you can only imagine. And trust at least this: reality is much more real than anything else!
- Ok.
- Time to start:
- Incontinence. When I’m asleep and weak then all the damage to the distal gut means that the organ cannot function properly and thus it happens. This could be worse (to be proven shortly).
- There are things I try and that I’ve noticed benefit myself. They’re nothing spectacular, nonetheless: Optimism and always trying just a little bit more 🙂
- “It’s hard to smile when.”
- I’ve been doing all those things that are right. One of the ways in which I see them is that they are functionally a bit like foundations, but in terms of imagery, even more like a cast: external support that prevents this weakened structure from falling anywhere or in the least!
- I can understand more the fact that it should occur at night. It makes sense (so much so that it’s pretty useless to say anything more).
- It’s hard to smile when I try to stand up, covered in metaphorical bandages and casts; when I’ve been smiling so much over nothing BECAUSE IT HELPS; when insult adds to injury.
- I was incontinent just at random. It was day. I felt fine, and to the extent that I didn’t feel fine, then I MADE SURE that I did!
- I cried. I have not cried in a while of a time.
- I cried because I was being made a joke of. I cried because my dignity is being attacked and I am dying as I try and protect it.
- I cried, and I was so alone, and then I cried more.
- I reached out between my tears for support and found only a passing instance of barely something. And so I’ve climbed back up by myself. I still don’t know what role another could play. But, suffice it to say that I was hurt so badly when I was already hurting; I cried; I was alone, and my solitude and hurting multiplied upon themselves.
- I’ll be ok. Even if I can’t I will. Even if there’s nothing I’ll make it up. If there’s no reason to stop crying then I’ll keep crying and build a palace of my tears, until that becomes my solace.
- Life hurts.
- I am a celebration. I must be the one to carry it. Like a memorial, it’s heavy and cold, but someone has to do it.
- I can say it again and again; what’s wrong; what unjust; what hurts: I work hard to overwhelm my suffering and instead it hurt more. It attacked me in a way most people could not understand, and certainly not sympathize. It attacks my dignity, which as a formula becomes something: I am attacked into a cell all alone and in pain. My body is telling me to hate myself, and nobody else can care (not if they try to understand – the “unless” is unless they try instead to reduce their vista of my suffering to something else, and something much smaller and less hellish).
- My body resembles a symbiotic entity, sharing this space with a disease. Together they punish me for living; they despise me and encourage me to punish and despise myself too. Yesterday they disdained the effort I had produced. Yesterday they were unaffected nor slowed down by my strengths, and felt comfortable and with ease attacked me when all was ideal (the sun was shining, and that was just the start). Yesterday they humiliated me before myself, challenged my pretensions to being able to care for myself, plus questioning my value… once they were through with me that is. Yesterday, they left me crying in the corner, prodding my soul to remind it that it is fundamentally alone. I cannot express grievance before the mirror of others’ sympathy without first expressing and first receiving shame..
- I have fallen down the steps. My legs are hobbled. My crutches are broken. I wonder whether to call out for support; a shoulder. This is a paradox I don’t know how to deal, and there is a deep and strong part of my soul that recommends me to cut it (#Gordian). God fucking damn it. Why this too!? I cry. I cry I cry I cry cry cury ryc cry cyr ycyr cyr cy cry crty cry cry cry cry cyr cry cry cry – these words are the tears are the past that is the proof.
- I cried. I will walk back up the steps. Up the steps I will carry fresh burdens; scars.
PS. To a future entity reading this: Consider (with curiosity as a very minimum) that I have overcome that time. There are too many signs and portents and excuses, crying and screaming and whispering, (cf. To Be, Or) Not To Be. But, Big fucking Bang. That’s just one way of looking at it. And what too: there is something poetical and beautiful and delicate here: Just look at the scars, their constellations paint a picture that is sublime. All these modes and colours of pain and of suffering are a powerful media for art.
