More dreams. Not horrible dreams, necessarily, just strange, very strange, and still troubling, if nothing else, troubling for what they say about my life right now.
Thank god I quit the job. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me all summer.
My body continues to decay. I feel like hell. I get off work and I feel completely, totally ill, ready to collapse, entirely used up. It’s as though I don’t know whether to faint or vomit. I go to bed earlier and earlier, and when I wake up I feel less and less well, less and less prepared to face the day. It’s as though I’ve got a terminal disease and am dying. So far as I know, however, the only terminal diseases I have are work and utter, utter aloneness.
Sometimes I call people, but often I lack the energy and by the time I arrive home just want to go to bed. I don’t seem to get anything at all done in preparation for school applications. I certainly have no basal level of physical fitness. My nutritional needs are being met in a spotty fashion at best.
I should have quit sooner. As it is, I quit just in the nick of time. I don’t doubt that if I lived like this much longer, my life actually would have been in danger. Even now it’s going to take me months afterward to recover, even just physically.
I feel a complete, despondent desperation in every sense, in every facet of being. I am desperate for a gun but would be torn about where to point it.
It’s time for work again.
When you took your vices & went
I stood in the middle
of yesterday’s fall and frozen aspect
and the muted sun dried my leftover drunkenness;
officially I was beaten down and desperate.
The spinning heavens became my mentor
and under them I hated you while I coughed
and waited, smaller and smaller & hunched.
The maelstrom towered over me —
the blinding light and scouring air,
pathologic God the Father in the filthiest of brothels,
violently grabbing and laughing,
intoxication drowning the better part of his impish valour.