Started on a half pill of the new drug yesterday ... Celexa (if I recall correctly) ... I didn't have any noticeable side effects (well, I did fall asleep within 15 minutes of sitting down at the computer last night, but I don't know if that was due to side-effects of the drug or just being so tired as to be non-functional), but I also didn't notice any particular effects either. I'll probably ramp up to the full pill by Monday. I hope it helps. At least I'm not whacked out by this one so far. It is very odd how these types of things are VERY much a "personal reaction" deal ... I know that The Wife has been on a whole mix of them over the years trying to find just the right combination. Hmmm ... another plus for booze ... with Gin, "one size fits all"!
Anyway, more morbid meanderings from yesterday. I wonder what my poetry would look like if I was ever REALLY happy. Since there (to my recall, at least) has never been a period of time longer than a few hours at a stretch when I've been what I would identify as being happy, I have no case study to compare stuff with. Yep, sucks being me. As has been the case of late, you gotta click on the link to see the poem ... and you gotta click here ... http://i.am/btripp ... to see the archives. Have at it ...
FOREVER CAST TO GREY
in modes of avoidance
swept under by tides
of terror and anguish
seeking escape routes
from this unending cage
trying to shift
the stones of this wall
to pry some exit
broken, beaten,
so unwell,
there is no change
from killing states
there is no up
in downward trending here
always sinking
no matter what we do
our toil and striving
goes for naught,
our exertions
fade like mists
burned by hostile light,
and we are mocked
for even trying here
to be what we would be
it is the empty hour
amid the pointless day,
we've bled all substance
into these morbid pools
and are left a fragile husk
still aching, feeling pain,
but with nothing left
to build a newer form
enfolding dark
wraps around us
not with a blanket's comfort
but with the suffocating seal
of plastic sheets'
bodybag shrouding;
we are entombed,
forever cast to grey
- Brendan Tripp
03/15/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp