things

Earlier today I spoke to mom. Apparently last week's mammogram showed something in her left breast and a nodule on a lymph node. Further tests are scheduled for Monday. I didn't react to the news. I couldn't. I suppose on some level I was expecting it. I said, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." She asked me to pray for her. I don't believe in god. I'll hope for the best.

I feel like I'm stranded on a vacant street in a city in shambles. The citizens have escaped to higher ground. With no sense of direction I don't know where to turn. The hospitals are wounded, empty. Telephone lines, cut. The sun is obscured by smoke from distant bonfires, burning somewhere far away.

I finished reading Camus's The Stranger. At 117 pages it's a short read, but it took me two weeks to finish; I read it at a leisurely pace. There is something comforting and, to a certain degree, familiar about Meursault, the book's protagonist. I've begun reading the book again.

Dr. F. moved my appointment from 1 PM to 4 PM. I've spoken to her twice. She sounds ancient. I'm afraid if I'm completely honest with her she will have me committed, but I'm unsure of the legalities of such a maneuver.

Monday was a better day. While I struggled to quell the highs and silence the lows, it was mostly an even day, emotionally speaking. Today, however, hasn't been so kind. High episodes make me want to leap from my flesh; low moments leave me crawling, looking for an escape.

Today was Election Day. I voted. But things won't change.

Outside a fog like a heavy ghost chokes the street lamps and blurs headlights. Forty-five degrees feels nice. I'm chain-smoking cigarettes wondering what will come next.
Colorful products glow inside warm and bright convenience stores.
American dreams are fueled at $2.34 a gallon.
Wet dreams are soaked by young girls dancing naked inside a dimly lit club. Music blares. Bass pounds like focused erections. And a man feeds "Rachel" dirty dollar bills. He doesn't want her to leave. He spent his last $4 on a poorly mixed drink. Alone, he'll stumble from the club looking for a ride home.
Home is where the heart is.
Organ transplants and empty refrigerators.
Fluorescent light and narcotics.
A hangman's noose and smeared lipstick, a forgotten valentine.
A fog like a heavy ghost chokes the city.
I'm chain-smoking cigarettes.

mc