A general practitioner once told me that human emotions follow a more-or-less sinusoidal curve, its peaks and troughs not deviating far from a particular height or depth, and arriving in a fairly predictable manner.
He said this as he handed over another prescription for the 20mg bullets that rubbed out entire afternoons, a vast, mushrooming whiteness destroying the retina and splitting apart ganglion.
Oh, polluting, infinite poultice, drawing dirt and acid and inflammation from the apparatus and corrupting the senses with its layers of snow. Snow got in behind the eyes and froze them to death, snowflakes in their trillions impacted the throat, snow bit off the fingers and nose, snow immobilised the tongue and felt pleased with itself.
I could not write a word for months after the doctor pulled the trigger and blasted the capsule into the brain. It took two days for the shock of the impact to register; I was expunged afterwards, the sinusoidal arrangement crushed and extended to a flatline.
Now, more than 18 months after the medical weaponry was decomissioned, I can only create when my present tense dips below the zero line of the curve, into negative numbers. It is the pit where I starve, foreboding in my dark clothes with dark moods.
Pitch is the opposite of the deep freeze - instead of feeling nothing, I feel everything, a bleak charge of electricity to chew upon, the bit; every word or thought that I rip out of myself registers with astonishment.
Promises and flowers and sighs chopped off at their birth, I hate them all. Infestation of ants that nourish upon the trophy of my body, carrying me away infinitesimal by infinitesimal, omnidirectionally so that no doctor can recover all the pieces this time.
