i believe time has it out for me. the hour and minute hands are in conspiracy to cut off my big toe so that i unable to balance my life. the hour hand is razor sharp and the minute hand is dull. in harmony they invoke pain and impede my forward progress. now, i must sleep and eat less in order to accomplish as much I can in the seconds handed to me before they change also. fear drives my mind on a winding road with no numbered exits. its a live daymare, which leads me to fear what awaits me when i close my eyes. i have tried to talk to many clocks cordially, but they walk past me ignoring me, as if stopping and acknowledging my existence would inconvenience them. i have offered my sacrifice for a moment of their presence so that we could possibly negotiate and come to agreement on how to work cohesively in the same space. we both roll on the same line. but, i can understand why they are upset with me. i never say, "thank you." i am guilty.
depression is a poem written by time.
Reading, "Touched by Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament," by Kay Redfield Jamison