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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2002-07-29
10:36 p.m.
Giant globs of petroleum-jelly paramecia are floating through my limbs with the blood in my veins, and the veins are not happy enough to shriek to the silent masses that the pain is more intense than the most drastic of all the pains in the world and the blackness and the giant fucking crawly spiders and the black black blackness with the air in red and black pulses in front of my eyes. I can see the mystique of generations brought before me to realize because I am the chosen one who only God and only God's minions can recognize. I am throbbing, rocking back and forth, every muscle in my body is clenched and I don't know what the fuck is going on and I can't breathe.
All I want is to be able to breathe, but I can't fucking can't fucking can't fucking breathe. I want to breathe, goddammit, BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE, breathe like the rest of the fucking animals on the goddamn planet because they all know how to breathe, they aren't cursed with this who knows what the fuck it is that causes my hands to tremble violently, like the sands of time running through the gates of a giant desert through which a comb is tracing patterns of sunlight and mediocrity and melodrama and shakiness with which the many thoughts of suicide and devilish delights and darkdarkdarkness is holy and all I want is to be able to breathe.
Breathe.
Help. I am at the moment recovering from the most intense panic attack I've had in a LONG fucking time. I could actually see my heart beating, throbbing in front of my face, and in fact, I can still see it a bit. I don't even know how the fuck I'm typing, but I do know that I can't stop my fingers and I continue to write, although I can no longer breathe.
The darkness, the red and black pulsating in front of my face, the clenched muscles dragging me through the piles of diuretic shit layered upon vomit of dogs and bloody carcasses and elephant feces, and I am in the middle of all of it, wondering which way is home, and who I am? And in fact, I can't stop typing no matter what I do. The tingling is running down my legs and the typing is getting to...wait, my thoughts just went upward. I saw them in front of my eyes, and then all of a sudden, they went up, like in a mental elevator that I can't see and can't stand on, but they went up, and I felt it. I witnessed the going up, I witnessed the up. I am up. I am going further and further up.
And I am suspended in time in space in blackness and marginal distaste for all things in any eventuality of hopelessness and I care not for the dots in the sky outside because the stars have no power over me and the stars are not aware of this stupid fucking human bullshit disease that makes me turn into a raving lunatic just when things were starting to go in the fucking right direction as far as getting taken care of financially and getting settled into a new place after all the stress and whatnot.
The thoughts are still in the air. I'm looking over the edge with my head through the fence, looking down on the Champs Elysees, like I looked down from the Eiffel Tower when I was in high school, only I'm terrified of heights now. I never used to be afraid of heights, but now I am, and here I am afraid of heights at the top of the fucking Eiffel Tower, and there's nothing I can do but wait for the keyboard to come up to meet me and bring me back down. I could be fucking punching a wall right now for all I know. I haven't the slightest fucking clue. All I know is that I half wish I was in the hospital because I can't feel anything, and I can't breathe, and I just want it all to go away.
Go away
