ｅｕｐｈｏｒｉａ

"I wish that I was as invisible as you make me feel".

“Someone once asked me what depression feels like. I said ‘like a slower way of being dead’ and I know it doesn’t make any sense but that’s just the way it is. laying in bed, unable to move even though there is nothing physically wrong with you doesn’t make much sense either. A family member once asked me why at my age I didn’t have a job. I said ‘i’m sick’ and they said 'being sad isn’t the same as being sick’ and, yeah, they’re right. being sad ISN’T the same as being sick. i can’t call in sad to work, or to school, or to anywhere else for that matter without being accused of throwing a self-pity party to which the only attendees are me and my sadness which is constantly being invalidated by those who don’t understand it, including me, because I don’t understand my sadness either. it’s difficult to admit this but the ugly truth is i have been sad for so long that I no longer remember what it’s like not be. kind of like when you have a cold and can’t breathe through your nose but instead of not being able to breathe through your nose, you can’t breathe AT ALL and all you can do is wait to suffocate while the people around you ask you what’s wrong but you can’t tell them because it wouldn’t make any sense. It never makes any sense.”

“I realized that a person’s attitude to pain reveals more about his future than almost any other sign I know.”

Fuck that shit. Now that’s a poem. Fuck that capitalist imperialist military-industrial-complex sexist skinniest lyricist white supremacist escapologist pissed invisibilist againstist swerfy terfy resentful ampersand prizewinning mainstream linear development poor projection low sillage imitation civet hydrogenated nooclear shit. – That sentence has a direct object. Fuck syntax. – Imperative. Direct object. Examine – okay, examining, build up the – no, definite article, direct object – you know what I’m getting at?! you?! I?! Pro. Pronominal. Pro. Prostitutional. Prostitinstitutional. Pronominanimal. Proem. It’s getting there. CUT! This is a poem. CUT! Ape ’em.

Your heart beat next To my empty chest while mine Sent out signals From an orchard Across the ocean Come find me it said And other perfect things