Salvation is just a word.
But I used to write it down, on my journal
Every single day.
Hoping one day
it would become something real.
Materializing a sensation has always been my charm.
Only that I've always materialized the wrong ones.
So eventually I stopped writing it.
And replaced the wish
with the word "escape".
I’m here.
Sitting on my chair and writing nothing.
I feel all words have been written already.
I could hide under the stairs,
under a chair,
under a tree and wait for
the world to come to an end.
I could hide anywhere but in my head.
How do you close the wound?
How do those stitches heal?
This is just another sad story,
my name on its title and tears on its pages.
Crumpled yellow pages.
"So, how are you?"
"Terrible."
"And what is that like?"
I glared at her.
"I wanna know."
"...It's like- your brain wants to get out
of your head but it can't.
So it takes you wherever it wants to go; even
if you don't want to be there."
"And where did it take you?"
"Some nice places that turned upside down.
The light diminishes and the memory reborns, all clean but distorted. How would
I know? I blackout."
I thought I'd be fine,
the window had a nice view.
My desk looked good against it.
But of course,
that was all I could see back then. That was
all I had in the room. Apart from the bed.
The best part were the nightmares. Sometimes
they were dreams, and the landscape changed.
Most of the time, they gave me headaches. My
brain would grow arms and punch the top of my skull in its best try to open it.
In a way, I guess it did. Something must've
broken. ‘Cause I moved like a puppet and went to all those places.
Only that I never left the room.
My mind loves the woods, sometimes I think in a
past life my mind was a very pretty little girl who got lost somewhere in New Zealand and
stayed there forever.
Sometimes I think I'm too damn stupid.
So I hit my head and try to wake up.
Guess what? I'm already awake.
That's why I think all words have been written.
And there's nothing left to say,
to make,
to do,
to live for.
I
blackout.
Again, I thought I'd be fine.
I can't believe how many pills I've swallowed
by now.
You wanna know?
336.
Well, I cheated one day so that makes them 333.
Nice number.
I get the language of doctors,
they come and go on their white coats,
exhausted eyes behind their glasses.
I understand how they understand me.
We're the same,
we're all one piece of flesh from which a blue
eye pops out. And blinks. And stares at me. I'm on the other side of the room,
still, quiet. I don't even breathe. But my heart goes crazy.
There's where I get confused. I thought I was
inside that monster. I thought I finally belonged somewhere.
But the monster grows legs and chases me, down
the hall.
Then the magic words appear:
"Hello, June."
And my doctor's language becomes a puzzle.
Talking with her twice a week starts to piss me
off.
At first, she made me think I had a veil on my
face and my hands teased. All I had to do was to gather "deep inner strength"
to take that veil off. I just had to shake my head and it would slip off.
Sure, move my head.
Move my head.
I can do that.
Only if it didn't fucking hurt all the time.
How do I heal the wound when there is no wound,
no material blood,
no weapon to stop it?
My problem was talking about suicide.
Huge mistake.
Dr. Cameron started thinking my mind was
dangerous.
"Well, sure. If that little girl stood by
the woods on her own, she had to learn how to defend herself. She became part
of the wild life. She became part of the green, and brown, and black, and red.
She made herself a predator. What's more
dangerous than instinct?" I said.
"Following and obeying the wrong
ones." She replied.
Oh, I like that. I can push myself aside and
say
that sometimes I think she's too damn stupid.
But then again, I think we’re the same:
Both hard to figure out.