Uncreated

Six o’clock.

Still is ink black outside my window. Things are in transition for me, or perhaps a little on the rocks. The drought continues. The obsession with freedom has gone away or altered in some way. It may be enough to be alive just for now. My mind’s eye sees things it normally doesn’t, but then “normal” is a misnomer these days. I don’t know what I am or what I want from life; just a schizophrenic guy staying alive. Figuring myself out could take a while, so in this case, existence really precedes essence. The sky is turning lavender to the east. I remember times a few years ago when I was very patient, and people remarked about it. I spent much time Downtown with my peer support in the fall and winter early in my recovery… It’s Friday, and the store should be open. I feel like clay for the shaping, and yet I would resent it if someone tried it. Never trust a therapist to steer you. I hope that a perspective of my own takes shape as I adjust to this medication. As it stands, my selfhood is merely a pool of language and I feel like a Frankenstein creation. And now the heavens have gone gray, kind of like my own identity. I am void and formless: will a voice speak over the waters to declare it a day? 

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