The Postal Service
Last night the old fear for a few moments, between doses. The Anxiety set in, but lasted only four, five minutes. Under the lamp on my bedside table stood my little soldier. Reach back into the past all you want, unconscious, Xyrem has you beat. Every time the past thinks it can pull me into that hollow, the fear is dispelled by my wonder drug, like those dish soap commercials that cut through grease with a single drop. Never again. Stay in the past.
Forgetting isn’t an option, even if some memories, some years, if I’m honest, are paper thin (my early 20’s, oy, lasted 72 hours). Rather than beat myself up, I try to focus on the now, what it can extract from all yesterday’s volatility, what it can give me, a few pointers, towards peace and acceptance. All easier said than done. Nothing lasts forever except the questions you leave behind. Cancerous that sort of thinking, sure, but that steady ticker of mistakes and missteps always crawl at the bottom of the screen. Even when I’m my happiest, it whispers, “Remember.” Such is life. Move on. Nothing to see here.
Passing time, when I look up and notice it tore past, is the worst. Any hour I recognize as having soaked up too much memory is scolded. “Look at the hours ahead and imagine all you can see and do.” Maybe time is right. Sit, and eventually the fear seems like more than memory. Unmoved, the floor sinks out. Put your feet back on there before it has a chance to drop away.
We will be become like silhouettes.
Da da, da da, da da da. Da da, da da, da da da.