I’m going mad. 

This is an outlet, a place to scream because I can’t physically do so unless I’m on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific. And that’s not happening in the foreseeable future nor this second nor ever. So I scream virtually and fling myself into the upper end of the troposphere and do anything else terrifying I can find to do that’s within my grasp. I force myself into distraction so intense that I don’t need to scream. But the world is too often too quiet and demons surface to pull me under. So I’m here, screaming at the top of my lungs. And maybe you hear it or maybe you don’t; maybe you hear it in your head at 3am as though the world were exploding and you were somewhere on it, which you are and it is and you reading this now is a fucking miracle because we’ve all been annihilated. How gruesome. But my screams, this space, they’re here for me to destroy you and rebuild you over and over because that’s the only way I have to share what burns inside of me without sharing what burns inside of me. And I have to share it because it’s locked up and I’m going mad. 


It’s summer, and I’m getting out, setting off to do things that I can do only when the prison walls that enclose me for 10 months of every year detach at the seams and fall away. My painkiller awaits me today in the slopes and obstacles and heat of a forest. Tomorrow? I’ll see when I get there. It’s day to day. Minute to minute. One foot in front of the other.


Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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