Fractured and Formless – Dead Deer

Trying to make a decision that will alter the course of my life. As so often this complex and nuanced situation, full of pressures and many unclear variables, it comes to a simple binary decision. Yes or no.

And of course each of those options bring more problems and decisions. Which way to jump? How much weight to give to each important element? When my mind has been battered and bombarded for so long now (I cannot believe the calendar is telling the truth) it is left fractured and formless. Keeping thoughts in order and in place is a very delicate and almost impossible task; but I cannot chose until I  can.

My thoughts; an express train going round and round a circular route constantly knocked off track. To get it back I need to stop and start again. From the beginning. Everything needs to be in a line. I need to concentrate, and there needs to be concentration around me. Yet there is constant non-stop distractions, half-interested non-focussed demanding the answer. Just keep on topic, keep balancing the plates on the sticks until I can finally drop one way or another. Because once it is done, it is done, for better or for worse that will be the route I take.

And finally, who is driving this train? This is the worst element; the thought that what fractured my haunted head is the same thing at the controls of the train, railroading, manipulating, deciding already and merely pretending not to. As always. That is what drove us here.

Today I wrote from 22:04 to 22:14. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

A Day of Denial – Dead Deer

A Day of Denial

Wake up. Let it in. It comes in whether requested or not. Chew it over. Rolling around the head as a piece of grit may roll around an oyster shell. This is not a piece of grit, however, it is a large heavy uneven stone clanking about hurting as it bangs its way around, and around and around.

Nor will it produce a beautiful small bean, with that subtle lustre. No, all it produces is blackness, ever growing; in size as well as hue; ever darker, blacker than black.

Stop it. Stop the weighty ball of uncomfortable thought. Is it too late? It is there, it is too big, it doesn’t even fit in the head any longer. How to stop it? Think other thoughts, better yet; think no thoughts. Is that possible? Push it out, slowly slowly, close the boxes. The tentacles thrash out of the lids, try harder. The lids are closed, the wriggling appendages are captured for now, pull the duvet up over the haunted head.

Now. How to get out of bed?

Days such as these, every day, are days without end. Willing the time to pass quicker; yet willing the days to not still come. On days like this shut out the reality, ignore the world around you, build moment by moment a bubble around you, a bubble of now. It is not happening. On days like this the only hope is to maintain a full day of denial.

Today I wrote from 08:30 to 08:40

November Writing Prompts – Read more from the Dead Deer and follow it.

The Haunting of Harold Hemmings

To write for exactly, and only, ten minutes every day, as exercise. Helped by daily prompts by “M“. Today I wrote from 14:02 to 14:12 with the prompt …..

The Haunting of Harold Hemmings

Waking up again. Another morning, another day. The initial trained burst of optimism, “Today will be good; I will have a good day” is soon gone; evaporated quicker than the purest alcohol, the alcohol Harold has eschewed now for so many years.

Thoughts. The thoughts come.

He lets one or two in, I can handle these, I can think about this, surely? After all this time. And briefly he feels he can. By the time his feet are on the floor, however, he is licking over these painful thoughts as one might flick one’s tongue against a rotten tooth; yes the pain is still there.

In the shower it is all he can think of. “Why? Why? Why?” a million times the same questions, the same hard rock of the same answers, the same circle.

Harold Hemmings cannot recall the taste of morning tea without fresh tears in it. By the time he leaves the house he is on the floor. His head is stretching to hold all these circular never-ending miseries in them. Time will help, yet his haunted head continues to ache and burst at the seams as he never can seem to lay these things to rest. He never can exorcise the disappointments, the humiliations, the pain and the despair.

Finally at the end of the day – a good day, his brain was only on fire for most of it – he takes his pills and he can sleep. The haunting nightmares will not begin again until morning.

My other writings are on Dead Deer Blog.