Revision

I don’t want to see again. These things, anyway. I saw them once & that was enough. So low, crying so hard that the tears roll up my forehead. If words on a page can change your life for the better they can also change it for the worse. Sick (sick sick sick sick) of rehashing whilst feeling I still don’t know anything. Recognition abounds but remembering is just out of my reach.

Reach, wretch, wretched. Swear I thought that I could do this once. Do it once, do it again. But what if once is enough? Endless bouts of having to prove myself when I’m not sure the evidence is conclusive. Constantly improvising. No memory, no line-learning – just the immediacy, the full flush of blood washing me clean. Reciting dead men’s living ideas or thinking through not-thinking, by being whoever however. At least not having to write about it in an hour to satisfy someone else’s expectations of me. My own expectations are high – how do I kid myself into thinking I’ll please them?

Thick, dense – how I feel, not just in my head. This unnecessary excess that I let limit me – or is it what I hide behind, in, around. I am so alone in this fleshy home of mine. Yet I hear voices, more like whispers, sometimes shouts, often screams; conspiracies & counter-attacks. Spectres lead ethereal dreams whilst I tightly knit my own nightmare. No one’s fault, just many of my own. My mind is drowning fast by the weight of its own chains. I have heard this all before.

Life is a war – my body is the battlefield.

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