This is sort of a poem, though more like disconnected images arranged like a handful of rocks thrown in a sandbox. Most of these phrases are taken from notebooks I kept while I was mad, which were subsequently thrown away by my parents. I assembled them when I had just recovered from that first grand psychosis:
Here we are again, alone in the crowd
The things you thought were yours
weren’t the things you were looking for
Yesterday is gone but not today
are you the one to tell me what I mean?
Is it live or make believe
when you practice to deceive?
if you live on the edge
It cuts like a knife
mend your desire:
it’s okay to be sane
Blindness was her claim to fame
the hush of a hope
when the doves are set free.
I wish I still had those notebooks, though I might be romanticizing their contents to myself rather than remembering their actuality — most of it was garbage, I think, and very little worthy enough to share.
