The day is dying down to greening turquoise behind the cloud-tongued hills and it is six thirty-nine pm, exactly. When night starts falling past the VI, you know for sure that winter has lost its bones and is sagging and sloughing away, along with frosty starts and felted wool and vintage fur. All that is a good thing this time; I don't usually relish summer but I really think I need the prospect at the moment.
The low sound droning in my ear is tinnitus. There's a weird viral thing going around that fucks with your ears and thusly I have fluid lodged behind my eardrum and I am massively sleep-deprived, fatigued and unable to concentrate on any fucking thing. Persistent tinnitus is a shitty guest that was kind enough to bear gifts. It has reminded me what despair feels and tastes like, both in my own experience and in my memories of someone else who used to suffer the same thing, to a far greater and more tortuous extent. In physically sharing one of the many things that blighted his existence, I am having long-lost questions answered; this is how it feels, this is what is does to you, this is how an intensely troubled person was dragged another fifty clicks away from help and comfort, even when they were sitting right next to him. There really is some stuff that no one else can fix; that's a hard lesson for a practical person to learn.
As an aside, if you know someone who's toughing a bad thing out alone, keep trying to reach them. They don't always realise that they want or need the help you're offering. They may not know how to use it even if they do relent and let it in the front door. Always try, in the way you hope someone else would try for you. I have never regretted the effort, just the inevitable failures along the way.
The low sound droning in my ear is tinnitus. There's a weird viral thing going around that fucks with your ears and thusly I have fluid lodged behind my eardrum and I am massively sleep-deprived, fatigued and unable to concentrate on any fucking thing. Persistent tinnitus is a shitty guest that was kind enough to bear gifts. It has reminded me what despair feels and tastes like, both in my own experience and in my memories of someone else who used to suffer the same thing, to a far greater and more tortuous extent. In physically sharing one of the many things that blighted his existence, I am having long-lost questions answered; this is how it feels, this is what is does to you, this is how an intensely troubled person was dragged another fifty clicks away from help and comfort, even when they were sitting right next to him. There really is some stuff that no one else can fix; that's a hard lesson for a practical person to learn.
As an aside, if you know someone who's toughing a bad thing out alone, keep trying to reach them. They don't always realise that they want or need the help you're offering. They may not know how to use it even if they do relent and let it in the front door. Always try, in the way you hope someone else would try for you. I have never regretted the effort, just the inevitable failures along the way.
| Silence truly is wholly fucking golden. Having the prospect of it yanked out of my handbag, at least for the moment, prompts me to consider my obsessive love of it. Why is it so important? Why do I need so much of it? Am I just being selfish? I wonder now if too much silence has let me decompensate or downregulate too far. Maybe I've gone past peace and quiet and wandered into low-functionality, that place that tastes like drain water and feels like balding velvet. |  |
So thank you, hellish electrical-drone tinnitus, for tipping me off to the fact that I might have been bottoming out. Sometimes we need some bad fucking volts to the taint.
It's like learning a new language. Honk if you know what I mean.
It's like learning a new language. Honk if you know what I mean.
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