Sunday, February 20, 2017
The most painful thing that I have ever experience is a migraine. The pain renders you helpless and weak, and therefore makes me depressed. I always have to be doing something. I can't just be sitting there, being lazy. Right now, I just want to be alone until the headache starts to make me weep as I fall asleep on top of the thorn bushes that I now sit upon. Trust me, a large, hot cut to the feet feels better than a migraine. I step on thorns and glass all day because I like to walk barefoot. I walk without shoes on the street, I walk on the glass left from car crashes, bottles of alcohol and the thorns and rocks on the forest floor. It's painful, I know; but it is also sensual. When you are in pain, your body creates endorphines - a natural tranquilizer - in order to reduce that pain. Then the intamancies created between what you step upon is amplified two-fold. It sounds disturbing, doesn't it? To fetishize pain? But I assure you, O' reader, that is not what I'm doing. The street lights turn on at six eleven p.m. where I am at now. But, truly, where am I? I'm in the field, possibly trespassing on somebody's property, with the device I am typing on and the Basic Works of Aristotle in my lap, right? I'm sitting here, with the chirping birds, the silent sound of streaming water and the passing of cars from a near-by road, right? Maybe my family worries about my whereabouts, and perhaps it is almost dinner. But here I am, near the stream, sitting atop dead thorn bushes cut down by an odd man in a tractor with the wights of the land quietly stalking me. I can feel the presence of him. But do you know where I am? I am in pain, and I took a pill to fix it but the pain prevails. I desire sleep, but I hate not doing things: and I have to do something. So it is six ninteen now, and I now know what I shall do: I will go home and eat that dinner. As I walked my way home, there I saw Venus plotted in the air, Lucifer in the sky.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Last night, as I prepared myself for sleep I remember the images of a man who's legs were amputated by a daemon of sorts called a Synx. I thought to myself, "I wonder, will a daemon come by night?" The creature, who in the image was imitating sexual intercourse on its victim despite its lack of reproductive orifices, would come for a visit; but, in a form unheard of. As I dreamt a scene of the outdoors, a child walked by me. His smile slowly faded and turned into a faint and distant screaming. My eyes crept open and I noticed that the light was turned on in the hallway with the din of a woman crying and screaming. "I need my medicine!" She wailed in a child-like manner, "Where is the key?!" The sound of moving and shuffling objects was heard as this she-daemon paniced for no good reason at all. I look at the time: it is one a.m.. I attempt to go back into the lush grassy fields of my mind, in hopes of ignoring the situation. I honestly could care less. I was thinking about recording this monstrousity but I refused to after I decided that I would rather burn for eternity than to relive this night. The daemon, upon arriving to her room, made a crude and terrifying announcement to my sister, "Did the boys put it some where?"
My sister, along with her girlfriend came in. She yelled, "Boys! It's time to wake up!" She repeated until we did and proceeded to ask questions, "Blaine!" She said as he suddenly awoke from his slumber, "Were you messing with the key to the black box?"
"What black box?" He replied.
"The medicine box!" Yelled Kennedy, my sister.
"No! I haven't even touched the black box!" He said hurredly as he realized the horrendous din coming from the daemoness.
"Ian!" She said to me, "Did you tamper with the medicine box when you were looking for your headache medicine?"
I turned around to look her in the eye, "No." I said. At this, she sighed and heavily and stomped with her terrified girlfriend going her way. I slumped back over, attempting to sleep.
"I need my medicine!" The daemon yelled as she threw a fit, "I just want to sleep!" She cried.
"Will you shut up?" Screamed Kennedy. "We're trying to find your keys! Why don't you get the boys to help?!"
The daemoness yelled out our name in desperation and instructed us to go in my mother's room to look under her bed. Kayla, Kennedy's girlfriend now laid over onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably and terrified. She was rendered into an anxiety attack caused by my mother's din and she passed out due to the immense stress my mother's infantile screaming created. I walked into the room, my mind in a haze of stress and tiredness from being woken up this early. I might of blacked-out much like Kayla, but my mind has dealt with stimulant induced psychosis and stress before so I would be fine. My brother, blessed be, was calm and like the rest of us thought that our mother's incessant screaming was a nuance beyond all else. I was calm, too; yet in shock. As we searched aimlessly, my little sister ran out of the apartment with the medicine box and threw it upon the ground effectively breaking the damn thing open. She rushed in, yelling at both Blaine and I to pick up the remaining drugs and medication. She ran in and my mother calmed down instantly when she saw it - the Xanax. Yes, this futile situation was caused because my mother cannot control her self when she has a panic attack and thus cannot control one's own emotions, and I do not care about the validity of her anxiety disorder. Nobody can control themselves in a panic attack. What I saw last night was not my mother - not that I ever saw her as one - I saw a weak woman who uncontrollably screams and cries then blames it on her mental illness. I saw a woman who knew not how to calm herself, as she did when she saw her drugs but became so ingrained in her supposed illness that she reverts to a time when screaming and crying fixed all problems. I saw a woman who is so dependent on the belief that a magic pill can fix all that I truly learned to never trust her again. A mature woman, unable to fix the root cause of an illness and thus become dependent upon a silly little pill. That makes me sick. But then again, this is the nature of a panic attack: You lose all sense of reality and self control.
Kayla's breathing was fast and her limbs shook in weakness. Her body was limp upon the floor as my mother popped a pill and proceeded to call her fiance and explain the situation as if she was the victim. Her body was over-heating due to the stress. After ten minutes of my little sister sponging Kayla's forehead with a cold rag she finally woke up, to weak and in too much pain to remember the events that unfolded in front of us all. My sister, helped Kayla to her room until she was fine. Laughing was heard from the room near two twenty. The next day, the quote sign read, "I am really sorry about last night! I love you guys! Have a good day! Love always, mom."
It is hard to forgive those, even loved ones, who have harmed another you hold dear.
