A poem about the relentless pursuit of my Love through all my darkness and storms.
Blogging Awards, thanks, and nominations.
I've written a lot while in the throes of depression to give you a glimpse into my mindset while I'm in the deep, but I haven't written about mania while I'm in the midst of it yet. ...Well. This should be interesting.
25 days and 8 hours. That is the amount of time that has passed since my last post. I've responded to a few comments, liked a few posts, but the words have dried up at the tips of my fingers like the petals of a flower in the desert.
Depression makes everything pass through me. Or at least, everything that could give me even the remotest form of pleasure or comfort. Like I'm full of holes.
N.'s artwork was beautiful. In the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Or a dark forest. Or an abandoned silo. Or even a ghost town. Otherworldly. Tragic. Magnetic. Haunting. Fascinating. Profound when pondered. ...Disturbing, as only death and neglect and long-accepted despair can be. N. was "other." Apart. And none of us dared go near him.
Strands of keratin. They slide between my fingers and I think-- Where were we, Love, when this small space at the end of the lengths were new, emerging like buds of Spring from scalp and skin?