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Monday morning, depression tide is high, quite high, higher than it has been in months.  I am struggling to focus on anything or say yes I am depressed please help give me the magic pills I give up I cannot take it; I would rather admit I cannot handle this stimuli in my environment I want to numb the modern American way give me the tonic give me the fashionable quiet addiction and muscle me up to the feed bar so I can be a rooster in the morning and not resort to the alcoholism or the sleep or mattress lust or the tastelessness the gray oatmeal platters mushed into earlobes like a paste of tubeworms reviving to commandeer my brain.

The god damn sun keeps rising and churning and banking on my ability to give other people what they ask and the repetitive second guessing the freedom to say every heart needs.  The idea of compatible interface to offer to experience slips farther and farther with anchor tied to ankle ocean enveloping the pressure of descent into embattled acceptance, forty approaching gnawing into bones mechanically digesting the transition that decades are slipping into this unrecoverable landfill of memories.  This poet who feels so eidetic relives each iteration of abandonment recycled in finger tips of the universe stroking away sparkles of possibility.  He knows the drill into the root canal of how much he would probably be willing to give, to try for even the scent and he ruminates if this is his downfall, the wanting, the willingness to try, to be open, rather than the staunch standards of asking.

What if he just sits there inside and closes?  The theater of trust and prayer, worship, faith, and revisionist apologists is a science experiment to unravel a deity of cruel hope to a man who feels the callous indifference, depravity, and hell-scape capricious swishing with the arbitrary drowning humanity.  Maybe I just want some help, tired of doing so much, maybe I want a pair of hands to hold me, eyes to look into me, to help me to value this time in between and before this life breathed into being.  Maybe I just want a season, a breath without trauma, fear, or cruelty pasted in the silence, the being ignored, the feminine rules of Quasimodo sounding a ringer-less bell tower.  Rope and a shell and the silence stirs the foulest of dragons gorging on the loveliness.  In this fire I give it all away.

Talking in a maze.  Choice Theory, I can barely function today, depression is just thick thick and I want a breath.  Looking at god thin air.  New things, neural plasticity, rattling like a catalyst, physiological mammalian deficit.  

Have to get back to work now, try to focus, get the financial statements out…