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March 25, 2009

I have been disappearing to the most fantastic dreamscape. I close my eyes to the mauve couch, the embroidered flowers embossed on my skin, the day’s children still wrestling in my arms, and enter Narnia. My heart aches in my mouth, dull and real and forcing itself from my eyes, throbbing through my jaws. If I forget my medication, this is my world. Too fierce to be endured, too painful, to excruciating in its beauty and perishability.

This must be what the poets of yore thought of as their Melancholia. The Ennui. The dull aching, overwhelming sensation of all at once, and of nothing. A thousand sensations, and no sensation. A yawning, aching sense of being.

And it’s alternative: a frugal, productive lack of sensation. The cessation of questioning.

For many of us, the world is too exhausting. The constant thumping of our hearts in our bellies too fitful a reminder. We perform, and fear that we have sacrificed too much.

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