Once you acknowledge your captivity
there is nothing left to do but run.
A panic-driven, soul-clenching reform,
she of the bedrock, of the rain-washed streets,
of the sewage-crusted moats.
The last of the bourgeois, a phenomenon
in her own right, a patent still pending
completely ordinary, delirious
in a wash of festering cumulus.
Walls are a consequence of denial.
She is running to him, crossing streets
and archetypes to deliver her message.
His answer is only possible in chase,
because he does not really love her.
I am struggling psychologically and as a consequence my writing is suffering partly because I am not writing. The night before last I had two panic attacks. I didn’t manage to get any sleep and I am still feeling the physical effects. I know I am over-thinking, over-reacting, being completely ridiculous. Every fiber of my being seems to be rebelling and while I have kept the self-destructive, self-sabotaging impulses at bay (for the moment) I am just not feeling very stable.