Some Days

Some days your brain is off balance for all but a moment or two.

Some days your brain is off balance for all but a moment or two. Fuck, not just off balance — free falling and hitting branches on the way down, almost every waking second, and there’s no way to explain or communicate this when it is happening. Every second a new, freshly snowballing disaster, leading roughly onto the next fuck up. Problems come racing at you three at a time — everywhere you look, all you see is new ones. They multiply as if by brutal design. Why would an animal be made this way.

Some days you look in the mirror and don’t recognise yourself. You hear your voice — talking to yourself again, fucksake — and are not sure that it really belongs to you. Your own thoughts don’t seem like your own. You don’t even know who you fucking are. Total disassociation. Some useless mass of genetic garbage, I guess.

One thing in mind but keep losing the plot. Forgetting what it was, that you were doing… devolving into a broken gibbering mess. Can’t hold three things in brain one time today. Struggle holding two. Every thing, every little sound or move, seems like a one-two punch knocking your attention into oblivion. The sounds of distant car engines run through you like lawn mowers over loose gravel.

Burning love and explosive diarrhoea go hand in hand, but not many romantic stories mention this. Body is rebelling against itself again, basic functions fucked. Can’t breathe without choking on your own throat, or step one foot in front of the other without losing balance. Can’t say hello to the shop assistant without making an arse of yourself, somehow. All the syllables get stuck in your throat and come out as a strange guttural kind of muffled scream good-hi! Ooh. Hise. Fuck! Ha! Haldy. Holdy how’s it.

What is this organic globule. Don’t talk about human imperfection, it's a sick joke and you must be in on it. They talk about spirituality and the world is set up to worship and adore predators — because they, of course, are the strong ones. The normal ones. Man: the predator that doesn’t know it is a predator. Or at least pretends as much. And god help you if you meet the ones who know they are and embrace it. They can assure you that they are good people. They can assure you. And if you ever heard two of those kind talking to one another in private, when they believe the coast it clear, you would vomit up your kidneys. On some days the presence of reptiles can be felt.

Days the weather is off, and the whole limbic system is out of whack, the tides are rotating and your brain fluid is sloshing around like dirty water in an off-kilter washing machine. The blood feels like it wants to burst out from you in all directions, back into microscopic particles, atoms, and sub atomic bits and pieces. It might be circulating, still, but it’s up against the tide. Magnets, perhaps. Maybe it’s some kind of magnetic problem.

Just eat dammit. Do all the easy things, and less of the easy things will seem hard. But that doesn’t make any sense. On some days, all you can do is futilely describe how useless you are, and how clearly you see how useless this whole gig probably is. That is all that can be done. And just hope it all passes before too long, like it has done before.