abulia
the sky and walls are soft, the ground is spongy ~ nothing has an impact ~ i have a vague knowing
that i must find a way to something solid ~ everything looks the same as I do and the same as everything else ~ blood pump, shuttering valves ~ stinging feelings from deepenings flinging up and catch in your eye, makes it cry ~ black hole spills out across the hazel of an iris ~ somatic signal ~ I can't find any here ~ here is a silent and interstitial, it's a concrete block, no ways in or out, and it's still ready to send rockets to space.
{the inability to make decisions}
daltonism
You can dress the Christmas tree in festive colours, crystals and delicately blown glass baubles and ornaments all in emerald and ruby, as tradition tells you. But however many embellishments you pin to the days and nights from Advent's onset until that sad day in January when all the lights must come down, however many jewels you pin to your tree and to walls, ceilings, furnishings, your front door- it still all looks the same.
{the inability to see the difference between red and green}
crepuscle
The moon is curled up with its knees to its chin, but the clouds obfuscate a london-road-human-eye-level view of what would most likely go unnoticed anyway. Maybe that's why it always seems the moon is getting smaller. Maybe it's just like the demons; the more you believe something is there, the more capable it is of actually being there, so by looking at it and responding to it you give it the power to affect you. If it's not scaring you like the demons scared me, and it's just a celestial body wasting away because nobody can be bothered anymore with moon phases and moon-manic behavioural changes, which were always a theory and never did have any empirical evidence corroborating. My thoughts are splitting, like strands of light, like thread. Sometimes there are needles. But how can I think about noxious cognition when the night is poised, ready to fall, and the cold of winter just feels close instead of cold, and feels like the promise of arms around you, because you know there are arms waiting to hold all of you, every vagrant thought, the spindrift rising upon the impact of daily sensations- and not too long ago, I was living like I"d no skin at all and like my blood was too much for the capacity of my body so if I were to be touched somehow, knocked even gently, the wound would be agony and I couldn't stop the bleeding. Now I have at least a year-thick layer strong enough wrapped around me to protect me from my own reflection or from my own oversensitivity to it. This is where so many of my thought threads end up, loose and all dropped. Stitches pulling closed with a neat gasp of satisfaction under the hospital lights that were tinted clinical and somehow made everything look septic, the nurses wily. Forearms lying there like dead fish. The harbor where the ugliest ideas were conceived and teenagers vomited on the rocks, drunken shouts drowned out by the roar of nearby waves. Someone's kitchen at night when everyone else is asleep. The moon has a lullaby but it grew deafening and all at once and for years now I haven't heard it at all.
bibliomancy
to be continued...