I pull out the yellow cigarette; the one for ataraxia.
1. a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquility.
Smoke in the eye, a painful wince, breathing deep into the hole of my hollow stomach; I’ve arrived again but I’m not sure why (or how). My skin is sticky and warm like honeysuckle but the cold liquid down my throat chills my insides. Sensation has returned; if even temporarily.
I’m killing flies in a serial manner. Quick. Efficient. This is not the Me I’m used to. Zoloft makes me frantic and shaky, Depakote makes me numb. Welbutrin makes my movements slow, and Restoril, it makes me sleep like stone.
Ataraxia; I really like that one.
I’ll light a green smoke. Something for indecision and default ease. Undeserving of any complications. How funny it is to be and be alive at all. Mind, why did you wake up? August, August; you are no woeful June but I never saw you as a yolk bleeding open. I need the tick-tick of my typewriter, “He touched my face and the blacks of my eyes turned into gaping wells; and I felt.”
Nicotine and coffee are the foods of poets, and love: the weeping pen. I could immolate this paper because I must see something burn. These nails are bitten to the nerve and they keep growing back weaker, but they return anyway.
A couple tiny pages? This proves nothing but the possibility of a lapse in chemicals flowing or dendrites firing. Synapses, dendrites… these aren’t just words! They’re in my head and they’re never sleeping.
I think I want to go back to the ward. I’ve been taking time off and my head is clearing. I feel able. That isn’t something I’ve said in quite some time. I think I’d better call Lisa. She’ll have the insight I often lack.
Red, red, red. The more times you say a word the more obscure it feels. A red one for disturbance. Anxiety, passion, power; everything strong and extreme. I can’t stop because I need to run or bleed.
There goes the wincing again; sharp smoke to the eye. My hands are sweaty and the pen keeps slipping. I feel I must warn myself. I’m dying but doing it faster now.
Drop my cigarette, burn a hole in my dress. I feel the calm pulling away. This is the slow descent from sanity to which I return.
Pink: the color of delicate things. Babies, flowers, paper, wind, wings; skin. Ideas, they can be pink, but are often blue.
I think about holding my tiny yellow bird loosely in my hand and stroking it’s silky feathers. Such a fine spun thing to hold a life in your grip and not take that life away. Death is a light thing as if pulling a silver thread from the mouth between gentle thumb and forefinger. How I crave you again and again.