The visit with Mother wasn't as laborious as I had envisioned. Non-coherent drug induced rambling seems to almost be expected. No longer does she have expectations of our interactions. Obviously, madness has its benefits. The only emotion I could gauge from her was helplessness. I concluded from this observation that any hope she had of "regaining" the daughter she once had hopes for were all but gone. Conversation seemed to be replaced by presumption. Presumption is a good thing. It saved me the chore of attempting explanation. I must say, the familiarity of her presence, no matter how detached, was comforting.

Alone again,
hidden from the world,
I sit here with nothing but the company of my thoughts.
 

I wrote this poem last night. It might be my last for a while, I have a strange feeling of detachment and feel my creativity slipping away.


Lithium


If my thoughts were in colour,
not this lifeless, boring grey.
I think that I could smile again,
even feel the words I say.

This feeling of detachment,
disconnected from the world.
Staring blankly in the mirror...
do I recognise this girl?



Mother has organised a "visit" tomorrow. I do think visit would be better replaced by the word interrogation. I used to loathe these visits, the fake smiles and forced interaction used to make me physically sick. I guess indifference and inertia have made an almost welcome appearance.



 

Truth has no concern for me….   I would be content to lay a while longer in the warmth and comfort of deceit.  However I have lingered here long enough, it is time to get up and face the incontrovertible truth. Reality is subjective, are their truths even relevant? I can only hold myself to what I have experienced and perceived. I am starting to think that none of us are free. Free will requires the right of a person to choose more than one course of action. They have taken away my ability to choose.
 

I should have stayed within my bell jar, its vacuum sealed confines at least held me safe from the sound of the madness of others. I have my freedom but am already sweeping responsibility under the tattered mat that adorns the floor. I can almost smell the inevitable unwanted emotion creeping up behind me. My madness seems amplified in this room, I am having problems hearing myself think… reasoning seems but a distant memory.
 

I was suffocating in my bell jar, a trapped science experiment longing for an escape. Being seen and not heard is definitely not my thing and should be reserved for monkeys and other primates with nothing intelligent to say. From an existential perspective one cannot separate freedom from responsibility. Oh how I have tried…. that instant gratification is always followed closely behind by unwanted emotion and finally expressed in a negative manner. **sighs** So on that note I will behave, not because I am choosing to conform but because personal consequence is the only thing that holds any significance to my being.