Wandering I

As far as I know, a story is the in between bits of the people and places you recognise. That is to say we forget everything and forget nothing. The everything we forget is the world without. It is the world yet to be discovered again, to be seen with an openness and the wider open eyes that we lose as we become weathered. The flighted among us suspend ourselves to get a better look and see further, whereas the grounded maintain the solidity of our perches, our nests, our abodes.

But I cannot stretch this image far enough. We have seabirds and sea creatures which rest but are suspended differently. Because of environment. And because birds have different vision, along with lighter aerobatic bodies. And only feathers without ink or knives to quill them.

So this medication is supposed to get me ‘back to myself’ right- it’s antipsychotic…

But what if I don’t recognise the self it is bringing me to? The self I see in front of me looks dumber and slower and heavier and uglier than ever. Sure I trust that people have interests at heart for me, but my best interests in their hearts? They have got to have known me pretty well for that.

Maybe the medication is working. Now I see signs everywhere again and now every so often, but they are all empty- as if I am unable to assign any values to any of them. This would seem to be a sorry state of affairs. One thing I know for sure is that I have forgotten to play the prettier games of go that I used to. My go is not just hard, it’s stupid and ugly.

There is one thing I have found easier though and that is to say ‘ugly.’ This has got to be a plus right? Because if I have motivation to write, but what I produce is ugly, this version of me is better. At least it’s not psycho right?

A close up artist rendition of a Kraken attack. Real life marine mammals are unable to defend themselves the way the Kraken could, meaning conservationists must do the defending for them. Photo by flickr user Deborah, used under a creative commons license.

Show, don’t tell. I think to myself when anxious. Like now, I figure my writing should be evidently rubbish, but I wish it were not so and “click.” Nothing happens.

That me was chewing on its knuckle for a fraction of a second, the time it took to remove the dead skin from its knurled tip. They were elsewhere though, reaching far enough into the back of beyond to drag back an image they were yet to utter about themselves. Now above the right eyebrow, the trimmed third, second and pinky scrape the skin. Soft paws. The eyes are drawn down to the pads. Lines and squares, but something escapes the digital grid.

Sliding from finger to thumb before resting, touching down and gliding between one bar and the next. “Click” in the open fist position, pen crooked between the fingers as the eraser tip button is pressed, out comes the final exposure. For your moment.

Hope you enjoy.

C. Mosser.


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