Haze

It’s been a long time.  The pain has muddled my brain, leaving me drifting and incapable.  Overwhelmed by the thought of writing, overwhelmed by the thought of things I ought to do, things I must do.  So to those I usually note, I can offer regrets, but not guilt. 

It seems almost pointless, writing.  How can I be coherent about something so incoherent?  What difference will it make?  What meaning is there to be made?  And ‘made’ is the word.  None to be found, only manufactured.  Contrived.  Some blurted words from which to infer the neuroses of the one who blurted them.  Nothing more. 

In my slow descent, I watch various desperations come and go.  Fourth floor: menswear, haberdashery; going down.  Third floor: a wish for someone to help with errands, desperate desire for a shoulder to cry on; going down. 

My doctor says this disease is incurable and progressive.  All others around me believe I should have cured it already.  They judge me for my inabilities; no comfort is offered. 

The world I live in loses its colour.  I see nothing I want; plenty I don’t.  I am drifting further away from it all. 

I feel inadequate.  I am not keeping up to basic standards.  I wear worn-out clothes; I eat cereal for dinner.  I am criticised for not yet seeing the doctor, calling a plumber, finding a new winter coat.  Absurd; I am crippled and staring in pain, pain, pain.  Am I the only one who thinks this absurd?  No, even I am beginning to doubt.  Even I am feeling guilty because surely I should have seen the naturopath, polished my boots, taught myself to cook new dishes and shopped for new jeans in the midst of all this.  Nobody seems to believe in the reality of pain.  A senseless covert torture, no perpetrator, no reason given, no demand made.