Tuesday, August 30, 2005

we are all going mad

My sanatorium poem was not a joke, nor fictional like many of my posts. I really do hear sounds that are mistakes, and I see images that are not really there. Faces stare at me, I hear my handphone ring, and living music or conversation in the drainpipe.


A sanatorium is where mentally distressed people go to stay for a while. I am not stressed now. Neither am I depressed again or similar. I have just a great need to be repaired somewhat.


I really want to rest. For a long time. I wish I could go to Sangklaburi or similar again, and forget all the urbane things, and throw all the shit away, and have complete silence. If I had to stay in a village and use funny toilets, but it was revelation to be there, I will go. If I had to learn to take water from a well in order to be a member of that hillside community, I will. At least, I can be like the Samaritan woman, who met Jesus at the well, and found the man that knew her inside out, like he read her mind. All the men she had, were wasted men, compared to the Jewish King. No man can be good enough to rescue her from all the inevitable hurt those men put her through.


Of course these men don't match up. The yardstick is different to begin with. A girl will never find the perfect lover, unless he is Mr Suave - Jesus Christ. So, I will stop comparing mortal (edible) men to God. It is insane. We all have to stop expecting someone to come along into our lives, to love and rescue us from the hurt we have been carrying from our first kisses till today. Only God can perform such operations. It is a lot of baggage to clear, no man can do that. Even if you really have that man, without Mr Suave around, he will leave when he sees the mess, probably.


I thought about this while the images and sounds of apparitions played in the bathroom, and I couldn't cry while Clarins emulsified on my face. I just snapped - hopefully back and in place - and carried on (my shower too).


My introspection has changed; I spoke to God in imageries and they got thrown back with a 'Don't speak to Me in cryptic' response. What am I thinking? I don't need to hide feelings with words in front of my God, so why am I praying in poetry? Thankfully, God replied my later proper statements. Distilling cryptic thoughts into clear conversation, helps me. I feel the most calm when in proper conversation with my Lover.


Other times, I feel like an Ally McBeal dancing to imaginary music like 'You are my sunshine' when I am walking along Bencoolen Street. All the buzzes in my ear, like chockful of imagined wax - the sounds go on.


Wearing down, am I. Physically sick and mentally ratty, plus I have been in lack of a good intellectual stimulation for a long time.


My spirit needs to be revived. Hopefully, in complete silence and only God. Take my world apart. Send me to an isle or mountaintop, so I can finally rest and fill out. Repair my mental vulgarities. Give me proper solutions that resonate in my fantasies and fictional writing.


The room is still noisy, and my bear is alive. I need to get out of this place I am in, soon.

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