I stand in my driveway, feeling the muscles in my back going through various spasms, while my abdominal region hurts so bad that I cannot decipher what hurts. The pain washes over and through me as I wonder if the next wave will drop me to my knees, if the next wave will be so intense as to cause my bowels to empty and my dignity to scamper into the woods and hide in the trees, to simultaneously draw forth from me a deep-pitched, low guttural moan, long, loud, and transforming into a primal scream of pain.
A scream built from agony which insures that the world will bear witness to whatever this pain is birthing, insuring that I will have no privacy for these moments.
I watch the snow drift down, blanketing the trees, the valley, the stumps and rocks; covering them with a white sheet, bringing peace, quiet, and solitude finally to the normally frenetic pace of life in the woods.
My cognitive abilities are declining rapidly; I've noticed, over the past few weeks, a marked decrease in my ability to spell, to think through a problem, to analyze, to perform basic arithmetic operations.
I catch myself lost in aimless, pointless thought; standing wherever, my mind wandering for 10, 15, 20 minutes. I have no recollection of my reflections. Part of my brain simply lost in the pain; another part lost in despair, in the hopelessness of my situation, of my life.
I conclude many times each day that the best thing I can do for the world around me, for society, is to cease to exist.
I find that I become terribly confused by what is reality and what is fantasy; I have noted, at times, that I confuse myself with my father. There are times when reality seems to be little more than a stream from which I can drink, or not: the result being that I do not know whether a given memory of a thought which took place moments ago was something I drank from the stream everybody agrees is reality, or if it was water from poisoned well.
Ultimately, it no longer matters. Or is that merely a thought resulting from a drink at the poisoned well?
