I sit at the table, watching the world go by
feeling like pure freedom, I think I can fly
and write, and act, and shout with joy out a spell
what was this marvel, pray tell?
When the mental hurricane strikes, and your senses shatter,
there is no pain or pleasure, nothing really matters,
your motivation and desires, drowned by your brain’s
screech of exhaustion, despair and squalor.
“Does anything make sense? Why do I bother?”
Worst of all, squalls aside,
the will for maintenance is become elide,
eating becomes a chore,
nutrition forced down your throat,
after much self-goading, and with much remorse.
But there was I, that rainy Saturday,
with a breakfast I forgot I loved until I ate;
while tangy whey and chewy curds filled my mouth,
the future seemed possible, there was little doubt.
Fear, there was, but hope and life too.
Meals were reinvigorating sustenance,
rather than mere penance,
as I prayed to the gods
of physical health and weight loss
to distract from my soul’s degradation.
With pharmaceuticals in my veins,
I’m not under the delusion
that my aches and pains
have vanished with much haste.
But now, when I eat, I also taste.
It’s a surreal experience, for someone like me
seeing things for what they are, quite clearly
and finally enjoying the sensory sensations
that I had long considered unpleasant burdens
For those who read and struggle in this vortex,
a stormy sea of exhaustion through your prefrontal cortex,
while it seems endless, it is not so, and soon
a taste you’ve seldom tasted will be with you.
