Fever again I am amazed by bloggers who are able to write so openly about their personal lives. There must be something of sweetness, of freedom, in the little details, the names, the private jokes. And I imagine there must be a certain self-assurance for this to be made public, something I will never achieve.

Should you detect a certain wistful or wishfulness on my part, I leave that to you. You may draw your own conclusions.

Then there are bloggers I totally respect like Edward - who are equal parts personal and professional, whose posts always manage to get me off my big lubberly depressed arse and onto doing things. Does confidence come with age, Edward? Or knowledge? Or both? That one does not need to fear being known, that being known does not equate someone else's power over you.

For me, my little stories, verses, exclaimations are nothing but flimsy walls and filters to keep my own sanity in check. Perhaps this is the bliss of the creative act - drawing people close but never close enough to ever know anything true about oneself. The danger is when one's entire life is lived like this... everyone is an audience and you never truly trust anyone.

Yesterday night and today I have fever again. Things seem very bleak but I cannot speak, save to the inanimate pages of a plain book, with my inanimate pen; or this inanimate computer screen that I fill by touching keys. Imaginary friends that keep me holding on. It is a poor substitute for a listening ear, but at least it is bearable to me. If there was another person beside me I would drive us both mad with my silence. It is always the worst when the person leaves - they come because they love one, and one sounds truly desolate. So they stay, trying trying trying to get it out of one, to find the key made of a single word that will unlock all the other words, that the words can escape and not cause an endless inner torture. This is when words, ever friends before this, fail and betray me utterly. They refuse to be spoken, or expressed, even to be thought. They suffer themselves only to be written, in private. As communicators, words are unreliable at best. It is wise not to trust them completely. But pity the poor person who leaves one at last in exhaustion and frustration! - and I am filled with remorse and guilt, of having failed, of wishing I could have spoken, engaged, trusted. Angry at the words, that will not come.

Some people tell me I should get some help, take some medicine. Or that I something has happened to me that I don't want to talk about or have willingly forgotten - like brainwashed even! I tell you now that that is not the case. If I begin to doubt my own mind then I am truly lost. If it is truly forgotten then there must be a good reason for doing so. Why attempt to remember something that has already passed? Not that there is anythign to remember! I speak only for illustration purposes... or for the sake of speaking, of feeling the rythmic flow of words, like life, like thought - making them friends again.

I will not submit to the fever. I resist and reject it utterly. Fever exists, and it is no one's fault. Not mine, not yours. Let tomorrow bring the breaking of it.

Labels: sweet misery

  ¶ 4:22 PM