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I am so overwhelmed by this saga I struggle to even touch it with words. Language is my frame in all things, but capturing these events is like trying to snap a photo of a pyramid made entirely of 30ft tall cards that tumble in perpetuity as I stand directly at its base, my lens unable to properly focus on a single detail and far too close for the fuzziest panorama.
I told my friend what I think I wrote here first, back when I earnestly thought he was going mad.
“It’s the shittiest murder mystery ever.”
She laughed. “Yeah, you got to the end, ripped off the mask, and he’s just smoking meth.”
The fatigue I have accumulated these many months feels unbearable.
I thought last August was the worst month I’d have for a few years. It was pretty f*cking shitastic, no joke. I was having all of these prophetic dreams. I stopped taking prazosin to preclude the possibility the pills would erase an important message after one dream that still haunts and shakes me with its ever increasing accuracy. The prophetic dreams continued until at least a month ago. But the one that made me stop taking prazosin—never ending nightmares be damned—was a dream where my mother, always a villain in dreamland, counseled me. I had been worried I was sleeping too much after quitting my kitchen job. I was so tired. I had so little sleep for so long. But I always tell myself, always, should I fall inert for a moment within the pyre of struggle that is my life, “Simon, get up. Get the f*ck up. Simon. You need to get up now.”
In my dream, my mother said, “You must sleep for three weeks, or you will not survive what’s coming.”
Three weeks later, my life burst into flames spectacularly. Or this is how I felt.
In retrospect, as the months wore on and things kept going from bad to worse and worse again ad nauseum, I figured out my life didn’t quite combust the way I thought that day.
No.
That day was the sulfur exploding from the match that would light a tiny flame that would catch the gasoline in the breeze that would ignite the air that would catch flame in the leaves that would burn the forest floor to a range of charcoal.
Giving blood. Keeping faith.
הנני
I told my friend what I think I wrote here first, back when I earnestly thought he was going mad.
“It’s the shittiest murder mystery ever.”
She laughed. “Yeah, you got to the end, ripped off the mask, and he’s just smoking meth.”
The fatigue I have accumulated these many months feels unbearable.
I thought last August was the worst month I’d have for a few years. It was pretty f*cking shitastic, no joke. I was having all of these prophetic dreams. I stopped taking prazosin to preclude the possibility the pills would erase an important message after one dream that still haunts and shakes me with its ever increasing accuracy. The prophetic dreams continued until at least a month ago. But the one that made me stop taking prazosin—never ending nightmares be damned—was a dream where my mother, always a villain in dreamland, counseled me. I had been worried I was sleeping too much after quitting my kitchen job. I was so tired. I had so little sleep for so long. But I always tell myself, always, should I fall inert for a moment within the pyre of struggle that is my life, “Simon, get up. Get the f*ck up. Simon. You need to get up now.”
In my dream, my mother said, “You must sleep for three weeks, or you will not survive what’s coming.”
Three weeks later, my life burst into flames spectacularly. Or this is how I felt.
In retrospect, as the months wore on and things kept going from bad to worse and worse again ad nauseum, I figured out my life didn’t quite combust the way I thought that day.
No.
That day was the sulfur exploding from the match that would light a tiny flame that would catch the gasoline in the breeze that would ignite the air that would catch flame in the leaves that would burn the forest floor to a range of charcoal.
Giving blood. Keeping faith.
הנני