| Psyche Based Straight Shots From The Heart shadows fall in the framework of a lifetime. so many have, yet these are different. they are darker, heavier, and paint a more desolate picture. they are cumulative, carrying with them the weight of shadows past, the knowledge of nameless shadows to come and those of the present; time is a mindless collage having little meaning. the days, however different, are really all the same. they are despair, color them any way you wish. the shadows allow no real hope or joy, only fish bowl facsimilies. nothing else seems real but them. upon they alone can she count to be everpresent. if they should happen to lift somewhat they are ready to fall again, always way too soon….and when they do it is harder than before. their density makes it difficult to rise above them or see within them; there’s no escape. she is a shell of something that never really was.. invalid.. she is only what she can /capture/…prismatic, split images of refracted light dependent upon an ever elusive source. many false selves overtake the physical structure prodding it on, but are really no match for the futility, the desolation, the powerlessness, or the fear. she is groundless and foundationless in “their” world, and therefore her own; ashamed and frustrated by such neediness, and laden with guilt. many boulders lie in the path, rendering her too tired to rock climb anymore. blocked and frozen, she lay down by the side of the road way too often for comfort, feeling so terribly lazy and chastising herself for such.. and yet it continues to happen for she’s losing both will and desire; everything’s slipping away. she replies to the powers that be that although medication affords certain reliefs, it cannot and does not touch upon certain essential things and she is unwilling to swallow any more new and improved “options”. they all seem to forget that thorazine, mellarill, etc. etc. were once in this category and now have fallen in the ranks and by the wayside not so highly touted as before. sometimes the cure can actually be worse than the disease. she has already swallowed enough for a thousand lifetimes and has yet to see their life as they describe it. it’s really two different worlds, unbridgeable now it seems. she has failed miserably to build the viable passage back and forth across the line for them, for herself, called ultimate understanding. Too huge an undertaking, perhaps.. and so this leech of a body and mind has succumbed for all practical purposes and purposelessness to their own special sauce of life sandwiched between all obstacles; trapped and eaten away. what real choices had/has she. she has no knowledge of life as they know it. she remains a cartoon increasingly more difficult to draw and to fathom but easier to turn the page on, as essential depths are lost in the translation and somewhere inside this struggle to be. a warped and broken record. there's not much more air, nor are there the proper words to make her point, and so she remains pointless... ...wondering now if there was ever one to make… © Sarah Gallant 2001-2002 |