Thank Heaven For 7-Eleven
Some days are spent dreaming away the storm, that gripping grey of fear that has the ability to turn me into a sick animal, twitching and cowering in the darkness. I call them my acute depressions since they come and go so quickly, usually within the span of a couple of hours. They used to happen frequently, every week or so, now, after years of therapy they are rare. It usually begins as voices of doubt--in particular HIS voice, that of the albino wasp, Fitzcarraldo prototype who stung me so long ago...dooming a part of me to wander sleepless ever since, haunting the hills of England like a pale blue eyed, white faced demon in a nursery rhyme.
Let it go...i tell myself, give the burden over to God, but when such a storm strikes Im usually too late. All that's left is to cling to the sliver of a silver trace that is still me against the suffocating whiteness--a white so filling it turns the world black with the nothingness of death. A white that's the opposite of fertility, the opposite of nature...
There im allowed to see, before the lord pulls me back.