Muddy, Muddier, Muddiest

I'm just glad I can write now. And talk, too. Because there was a point when I was stopped blank and couldn't. Not long ago at all. Eminem called his rapping once a kind of diarrhea of the mouth, in a really self-deprecating line in one of his songs. For me it was more like a diarrhea of the brain, being typed out by fingers, typing and typing by and from an unknown impetus that wouldn't cease, my mouth barely functioning. It was really bad. I've since deleted those tweets, some strange call for attention or help or whatever, a couple Facebook profiles too, because I didn't make any sense. I mean I could probably extract the meaning reading those lines now (of which some are written in various diaries/journals) but only because it was my own lived experience. I felt these things, I've felt it my whole life, I feel it now. It's coming to me piece by piece, some mysterious coherence, forming, but achingly slow. I'm not pushing it. Just waiting until time gives me a light the color of the deepest green, not just a faint, sickly lime, not a light at all, like toxic neon waste. 

(Now I function like a well-oiled machine. In speech. In writing. Other things, too. But not without, not without... this... sickness. Which can no longer be referred to as existential dread, something which I know I've crossed, something which no longer phases me.)

- F