I said that I could not go on
for much longer for years.
I was having another crisis of perception.
I could not remember the water tower rising over
and dominating my thoughts while walking through the woods.
Nor did the memory of standing on countertops come back again.
None of those related adolescent events were available at the time.
When confined to that state of mind everything else is erased.
All the things I used to love tasted horrible: cigarettes, beer, even coffee.
I did not know if it was due to the illness or what, but like all other crises,
it seemed like it was the worst, and the one to end everything.
At that point, I realized that I had been writing my farewell note for a while.
I just wanted to shut myself away
in absolute solitude with my books, and some pen and paper.
Only then would I be able to become another character again,
perhaps a relatively stable being.
But when you have committed yourself to a social form of expression,
or to another human being, that is not possible.
Even if it all seems like too much, isolation is not desirable.
Although if I was confined to a tiny place with just me and my words,
I could achieve what I really want.
That vacant stare is also present in some non-combatants.
I think this while staring at a reflection.
I no longer will write anything automatic,
because I do not get high anymore.
I’ve only just begun in this new era,
and I’m finding it difficult to breathe.
Yet the world is clearer,
and I find that better.
I was lost on that trail,
even though it was short.