You’re building a strength of mind that should not need to be built. You’re making inroads so as to be able to well and truly somehow help people in the future with this illness. And you’re doing it at about… ten percent of the real you. Most of the time, really. So, yeah you’re literally dragging your mind through almost every second of every single day. No anger, just… agitated confusion. And you’re gonna keep doing it because, well, you owe it to both yourself and those around you. You truly do. How it plays with your mind and brain is impossible to process and get over. It’s.. its own holy shitshow of unmatched mental torture. You’ve written a million and one things about it, and you’ve even gotten to a point in your mind where you almost, almost realise just how mentally abstract and illogical it all really is. Only to fall right back into its greedy grasp. But, really, it has been nothing but illogical happening for you almost all your life. So how does someone then kick-on from something like that? This is arguably the hardest thing in the world to live with. You’ll have lived a million different scenarios even inside of just one year, and all of them a brain just trying to be as okay as it can and to wholly get itself away from this seemingly inbuilt disaster. Your choice to remain happy is just that, your choice. Your choices are all of them yours, of course, even if everything has been pretty much taken to task and on so many mentally looped levels it really is… jading, even if utterly jaded is all that your brain actually understands and knows. Silence is a dream for an OCD sufferer. It truly is. A dream… and also a precarious place for it to find itself. Many things are an absolute dream. But you strive because you’ve earned it a thousand times over. You’ve written all the poem-pieces that you can come up with since returning home from Dublin well over a decade ago. You’ve stood in your own way a million times and still… strived forward. Strived to be okay and to look after those you care for. Those who cared for, and still will continue to care for, you. You’ve made inroads in terms of your own understandings on living a life the best way possible with this illness, even if even that doesn’t feel in any real and consistent way clear enough to yourself a lot of the time. Words are your weapon and your utter fucking devotion as well. Your happy obsession. Utterly. You did that thing. All of it. An ocean of poems, as Martin Feeley says. Even if they make much, much more cerebral sense to me than I’d ever freely admit to them really meaning… to mean. And you’ll pull certain words from this particular note, even, and end-up turning it into the beginning of yet another poem-piece. Or maybe not. Who knows where you’ll bounce your next piece of scribbles from. If you’re gonna walk with this thing then you’re gonna walk with it as a soldier might walk with its comrades. As nothing more than angered and, perhaps, many a time quarrelling between themselves from what’s happening around them all of the time. Lost in a truly unnecessary and unwanted thing happening around them. But always, always looking out for the other in search of the exact same thing. Freedom.
Nope, the title of the next poem-piece is called ‘Harlots in Chariots’ and of course there will have to be a Charlotte in there somewhere for rhythm’s sake AND… it NEEDS TO BE BY WAY OF ‘BRILLIANT’! What ever that even is
