Mosaics of screams
Tapestries infested with bile fibres
Fibrous tapeworms entangle mind wires
Wiring unwired, adrenaline fired
Highly strung, tight, taut
Now just tired.
Yet spots of self spatter and spray like fine dots
white blotches and patches , join, spread
ballooning; like cotton, delicious, soft.
This is what could be!
The sleep turns, twists..
faces burn, emerge into relief, ..yet relief itself still yearns
to break the tide of years of grief..
Here is it, now.. but how it always was?
Lonely streets repeat.. and repeat.. and repeat.
A winding, silent trace of deceit?
Snaking cul-de-sacs, walls and alleys of thought, trapped..
Yet turning back on ones' self
like a serpent consuming it's own tail.
Replete, coiled, confused..
But returned. Somehow returned.
sunken into the strata of a thousand hills
rocks press relentlessly but the forces cannot hold still
like dark matter, memory rises through into dreams
as if all the land was paper and the memories were ink
scenes reconstitute from atoms, faces emerge in black tones
and there we are again to repeat the show
play that again..
Who was that person that time?
Who am I?
I took down this journal and put it back up again. That's probably about 7 times now, and many early posts are long deleted.
This is a typical reaction.
The ACOA child is undeserving of credit, and seeks to diminish itself of responsibility. It also seeks to play down talents or skills as if these things are merely passing strangers.
As a child I felt I was gifted yet was frozen by the thought of using this in a way that exposed me to failure.
The undeserving adult is no different, and the child is merely wearing the adult like a costume.
In the story, there is a fierce struggle. It was a surprise to me that the struggle would be so fierce and the resistance so unrelenting. The controller and the controlled, locked in remorseless combat.
Today I stood up and looked back at the debris from the past month. In the story, there is a similar battle, and almost, a defeat.
Yet there is an inevitability that the story provides me. A sense of fate.
Of living in parallel to it.
Yet the ground still shifts underneath my feet.
If this journal is a thing, it is at least an account of things as they are. The honesty and public expression of honesty are a searing concept. There must be no hiding.
The blindness of sight. Colours blend yet each ray reaches disagreement, an impasse on which colour to be. Always black it seems, as paint, not light.
Awakenings arise, spooned along a laser of time; the past roughly mounts the present,
unwanted coupling.. the past rapes the now.
the present is a disembodied victim.... out of its mind... bring it some mind-altering things.
Yet I return. Somehow from this bleakness. Sometimes. Enough times.
I crawl to the well and peer downwards expecting to see lost children, long discarded in there.
Maybe I'm there...?
But there is nothing but deep gloom.
I need to stand up, but the pain is still there. As it ever was.
I get as far as my knees. But that is something. I've been here before.
by Paul Sinclair