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Asylum
I sit now and write not because I am a genius but because the clacking soothes my hungover nerves.
Panic has reared its ugly head a time or two, over the years, and this mechanism has also eased such tremor. This is my attempt at feeling better. What a terrific way to shake off dizzies, steady my hands, and control-alt-delete. Too much poison makes Jack a sick boy. I need my medicine.
I’ve seen the way some of you look at me when I make this claim. Your eyes glaze over and they’re followed by a nod, as if to say: Yea, sure. Whatever you say, man. It’s clear that you don’t understand. Only we who have the sickness can comprehend the burning need to pick the scab while feeling as though we’re coming undone. Think of it as pleasant chaos, an eye of the storm.
The clarity that I find there is addictive. It feels like a heavy sigh on steroids. I can breathe. I stand there in front of a million mirrors with a child’s curiosity. The reflections yield truth rather than judgement and I feel no inclination to run. I rest. If I’ve ever known any place that is safe, it is this one, my city that never sleeps and populated by yours truly, as well as the voices in my head.
Many of you think I’m aloof. I probably am, especially when the illness strikes. Distance and space are the ingredients for peace and that’s more important than giving every ounce of my time to you. My personal vacations are, yes, all about me. The last thing I want is to end up in the headlines after going coo-coo puffs. I do take you with me, though, every one of you. Your fingerprints are on my mirrors.
Of course the place is lonely. There are worse ailments to suffer. I can open a vein as Hemingway suggested or spend time on empty engagements. Not all are void but the majority creates a Pac Man on the pie chart. Most of us have a sanctuary. Mine isn’t better than yours. It’s my way of achieving sanity, even if only on a minuscule level. Yes, I’m crazy. Alone is a grand asylum. The words captured are conversations that never would have been possible. Cheer up, pumpkin. I’m not neglecting you; I’m sparing you of my worst. You’ll thank me later.
Copyright © 2015 – Bobby Travis – All Rights Reserved
Panic has reared its ugly head a time or two, over the years, and this mechanism has also eased such tremor. This is my attempt at feeling better. What a terrific way to shake off dizzies, steady my hands, and control-alt-delete. Too much poison makes Jack a sick boy. I need my medicine.
I’ve seen the way some of you look at me when I make this claim. Your eyes glaze over and they’re followed by a nod, as if to say: Yea, sure. Whatever you say, man. It’s clear that you don’t understand. Only we who have the sickness can comprehend the burning need to pick the scab while feeling as though we’re coming undone. Think of it as pleasant chaos, an eye of the storm.
The clarity that I find there is addictive. It feels like a heavy sigh on steroids. I can breathe. I stand there in front of a million mirrors with a child’s curiosity. The reflections yield truth rather than judgement and I feel no inclination to run. I rest. If I’ve ever known any place that is safe, it is this one, my city that never sleeps and populated by yours truly, as well as the voices in my head.
Many of you think I’m aloof. I probably am, especially when the illness strikes. Distance and space are the ingredients for peace and that’s more important than giving every ounce of my time to you. My personal vacations are, yes, all about me. The last thing I want is to end up in the headlines after going coo-coo puffs. I do take you with me, though, every one of you. Your fingerprints are on my mirrors.
Of course the place is lonely. There are worse ailments to suffer. I can open a vein as Hemingway suggested or spend time on empty engagements. Not all are void but the majority creates a Pac Man on the pie chart. Most of us have a sanctuary. Mine isn’t better than yours. It’s my way of achieving sanity, even if only on a minuscule level. Yes, I’m crazy. Alone is a grand asylum. The words captured are conversations that never would have been possible. Cheer up, pumpkin. I’m not neglecting you; I’m sparing you of my worst. You’ll thank me later.
Copyright © 2015 – Bobby Travis – All Rights Reserved
Published 5th Oct 2015
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