Sometimes medicine is called yoga, poetry, dodgeball, novels, protest rallies, Who Dat chants, gardening, zombie movies, cooking a recipe from scratch. The world wants to say hide, cover up loneliness or sadness like ignorant paste to tell you to smile and fight it like Jeff Tweedy's chorus or worse to pray or say I am praying for you. Mental health is not convenient or blatant like an ax in a thigh spitting crimson. Dismantling the army of clay soldiers built inside the mind takes action. One cannot just talk them away into dust.
Humor breathes in the ubiquitous nature, the omnipresent that is the calling for interconnection that pulsates in the belly of lonely in all of us in waves of undulating seasons. The call is to fight to be present; pain is not enemy, but fuel for awareness. Those with less of it so often suffer the injury of distraction, paying days into a tin of plastic convenience, pop-candy anthems of karmic indulgence of everything for a reason or a plan or rational arrangement wasting time into recycled today's assuming doppelganger tomorrows. Apathy, immutability, and indolence are the enemy.
Pain jolts the system into catalysts of doing, into reconsideration of what one is capable, of how short life is, challenging how much one wishes and wants to participate in the grand circus. Are you willing to eat off the floor, walk out on that wire, stick your head in the lion's maw, or stand in front of an audience being you naked and alive or are you going to sit there feeble hiding afraid to either ask for help or get up and help yourself and make your life what you god damn dreamed it could be.
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