I Am Unwell

by dschapman

While walking I felt overcome. I fell against the grass and laid up watching clouds. I could hardly see the clouds; my vision would move through them, they would disappear into blue, my mind would start manufacturing blueness, imposing its own blue reality. Blades of grass pricking the back of your neck; no, it does not pain me, although I am in pain. Ah, oh – simplicity…. how smug you seem, how smarmy. My name is Maleficent; my dreams have failed me, all I have are dreams, some call them memories, I call them myth. I have spent six months lost in love for a girl who does not even know me. I have been fused to the world, though diffusive, and I am being strained. Six months with an ache for no reason. It aches so bad, sometimes my chest collapses, sometimes the world goes grey and sharp, sometimes the patina cracks and an evil neglect falls in hopeful embrace. Perished, with dystopia; letters in my own longhand, longing to weather the passage of time. Six more months and I’ve gone a year without love, without health, without pleasure, a year in a state of mind-numbing suffering love, full-branded love cast from wall to wall, all-consumptive, blinding in succulent fury, paralyzing, stillborn, crepuscular. A year ago I was one year farther from death than I am now, and no more prepared for it. Fixations. An annexed bedroom, disappearing – vicious winds. “Ah!” I screamed – picture me, screaming, picture yourself when you scream out of baseless denial and fatigued disillusion – “Ah!” And what I meant was: “Oh, no…”