BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

(sigh) ... such chaos ...

So much stuff to do ... so far behind on everything ... no time for me ... no time for "sanity" ... just rush rush rush, project project project, bleh bleh bleh. No wonder I miss my drinking days.

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 ... ... to see the archives. Have at it ...

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                    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

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

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