Hasten

Today I die another one of many deaths. With each trial comes a death, an end from which I continue after detaching from life, free from the gravitational pull of orbit. It’s exhausting, this living and dying and living again. I’m not sure which is more frightening, that the number of times I may die is finite, or that it is infinite.

I find myself planning leave from work, making plans for time that doesn’t exist, talking about things to do in months and months from now. It feels exactly like planning a trip to the moon or Mars, some totally absurd thing that will never happen. I truly cannot see the other end of a single day, let alone a week, month or year. It’s a pantomime, a delicate show of normality, that I can integrate and match observed behavioural patterns. I will have eight-weeks in total of leave soon, this means I should take some, I remember this input and its related response and action.

Vroenis continues to be more abstract than usual. We’ve been this way before but I never grow accustomed to it. He doesn’t talk to me or tell me what he’s doing. He goes away for days and comes back when he wants, or is inclined to, or called to by whatever siren may dictate his movements. He builds these translations of… I don’t know what they are any-more. Translations of external experience or translations of internal emotions, if I can call them emotions… reflections… abstractions… talking circles. I don’t know what any of it means, I leave him to his own devices and one day as always he will offer me something in the way of explanation, though mileage varies. I may simply be too pragmatic to understand it, though in a sense we’re both comfortable with this fact. There are more than a few good reasons that we should both do varied different things that the other doesn’t quite understand. If there is any abstract of health, then this is it.

I find myself instantly hating and loving the same people repetitively across moments of spending time with them. I don’t hate them because they’re despicable people, I hate them because I can’t handle them all at once. Nevertheless patterns will be remembered and I can manufacture what is needed to move along the groove with them, and this is as far as an abstract of enjoyment of company that I will get. It is good enough. I can laugh and tell jokes, we can laugh together and share experience, though the actual experience is lost on me, only the people I have shared it with remain. Between the two I prefer the people.

I’ve recently said that work is the most bizarre of sanctuaries, and this continues to become more and more the case. The tool-sets required to execute tasks at work are extremely limited, no matter how complex the task. For the moment I execute my actions without pause or hesitation, and I imagine this is heavily influence by medication, stopping me from blanking or losing short-term memory, making concentration and tracking semi-natural instincts again. I can even have conversations with my colleagues about complex emotional issues, I sound natural, am encouraging, duly sensitive and reflective. It’s strange; this place where we all are resigned to our inevitable presence with one-another and the necessity to work well together somehow creates a short-cut through pretension, making people oddly endearing and sincere. We don’t know the full details of our struggles, yet our equally shallow encouragement of each-other is so genuine, valuable and effective. At work I am in many ways encouraged more greatly than by people I am well acquainted with outside of work, people more aware of my history, some of which should by rights be much more sensitive to my mental state.

That’s about as much sense as I care to make, I don’t know when I’ll be able to make it again, and I don’t know whether or not I will want to. Like everything else, I write for myself first and foremost.