Today’s entry is recycled poetry. I was angry yesterday, and while I’m not as angry today, I am still processing how to continue. It occurs to me that I may have actually stumbled upon something (thematically) to write about — what it is like living with mental illness. Be raw and honest and tell it like it really is — not for sympathy — but for illumination, for instructional purposes. No exaggeration, no sugar coating it. Dealing not only with the strange mental processes and thought patterns, but with behaviour that I can recognize is not the norm.
In the meantime, here’s a poem, entitled: karma is by no means instant
i know how it feels to be the cruel little boy trapping a fly in a water glass upside umop creating my own little bell jar me on the outside looking in curious at first then fascinated by the fly’s desperately random suicidal escape attempts as if banging its head against the glass walls will do anything but give it a headache as it looks out in terror at the million images of the cruel god that holds its freedom in his sweaty little hands i know how it feels to rejoice in that terror the power in reaching into the glass and pinning the fly against the side the sick exhilaration of feeling it struggle against my finger and the moment of sadistic glee as one of its wings tears free its glass prison discarded rendered unnecessary by the fly’s broken state i know how it feels to stand over a broken body with pin in hand threatening to deliver the final blow and end the pathetic suffering only to pin down the other wing and laugh as a creature whose only real joy comes when flying tears off its last remaining wing in a sad attempt TO LIVE TO LIVE TO SIMPLY LIVE i know how it feels to be the cruel little boy pulling the wings off a fly but right now i’m the fly