Wednesday, October 10, 2007


I carried my tennis racket
And walked as fast as I could.
I was ok for the moment
With the next few hours planned out
Like kindergarden.

I walked past a man and two kids
On a porch on Palmerston
Shading their eyes and pointing up.
There in the deep grey sky sailed a navy blue blimp.

This morning when I sat down at my desk
There were responses to two emails
From the night before
I could not remember sending.
Maybe it was the sleeping pills.
At some level there was relief that even the drugged up me
Knows how to toe the line.

I'm trying to remember when all this started.
Maybe the spring?
No, earlier.
Probably in winter.
Winter strips everything to the bone.
But in the summer you rot.
Blimp, blimp, blimp.

My therapist doesn't think it's depression
As much as it is 'the verge'.
The verge of breaking away.
Of being myself.
Of living my life.

"Once you got a taste of it", he told me
"It was impossible to settle for anything else,
And that's where you are."
So apparently there aren't any pills to fix that
Other than those ones he gives me to sleep.

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