I should be glad, however frustrating, that I know to lay off the (prescribed) drugs that limit, so very well, the sinking despair that has been slowly threading itself through-out recent days, weeks. Insidiously pushing into lazy thought processes, the well where random ideas spring from.
I know I should go for a walk, appreciate the sun, the beauty, the simple pleasure of doing something good for myself, appreciating that which surrounds me.
I should know that it’ll be good, brief, but good, and will perhaps even help see tomorrow in with perhaps a bit less grief.
But I don’t think I can, I feel sick when I go to make that final move. To talk to, to arrange, to seek help.
And it paralyses me, and drives me to the few things that distract.
Should knowing that I have Monday – tomorrow – off relieve this pressure that is building inside? Ease this tense, vestigial coil of adolescent dread and expectation enough for me to not question the next I make: a questioning that keeps me in an unneeded, awkward state of alertness.
I’m a paranoid vigilante so risk adverse he may never actually speak a word against that which is is so vehemently opposed, on guard for, if only because he has no idea what it is he is expecting. He just knows it’s a bad thing, a dark, terrible thing from which he will not escape, if it gets passed, just once. He feels it, and he hopes he is right.
I know he is wrong, and I tell him this regularly.
Usually all settles, agreement is reached.
Equilibrium is not the default, my opinions outweigh his.
But now: i walk away from these talks we have, almost convinced he is right about what he fears is out there. In here. That it’s worth not prodding, not trying to elicit a response, on the naive, childish assumption that the response, the answer, the experience, is always good.
And it is good: and I am sorry to those I have ignored.
For the moments passing when my absence is notable, I just hope you do not think ill of me for it.