narcolepsy

writing of clarity, ashamed to think there is any such thing. time passes and forgets itself blatantly. this isn't what had been in my mind.

therein you begin, again to begin. to feel. what is a thing called feeling? in a time of capitalism, we hide it in our dark closets and make mention or expel harsh words on small children that have no defense.

we are defenseless in our lack of feeling. in a house we did not build, nor do we own. there, demolished by the kitchen sink, a rotting corpse.

the one of my body. dank. decay. miserable.

and then, we make art. we expand to create. we are exhausted. and yet, there in the glimmer of a late night or dusted corner, open fields of change, news of you. how disconnected we have become.

my heart lingers in this life. which is mine. but in which i am not living. outskirts and street camps, there is a quiet lull deep within cajoled by broken harmonies and fresh snow. loblolly pines. people who have exploded out into the universe. they have defined their creation. do they understand how brilliant they are?

of all that one can learn, there is so much. so much that it exhausts me and i should want to die.

but i have known exhaustion in ways unmanageable. i have hidden in fear because i could not complete or continue. barely having the frame of mind in which to begin.

and now, it is coming all so clearly, the dream like state.

no longer a critic...i am my own creator...and despite my medicated fancy, fallacy, will be, finally, absolutely ready to dedicate myself to the
WORK
I choose to do or am chosen to do.


sad but grateful,

katelyn