Steps to Recovery

Steps to recovery
It is essential to make the first move
Unless I am already in the process
I will get lost at the starting point.

A truly cowardly act
An escape from an inevitable fact
But not until I retrieve my self-consciousness
Not until I deny this darkness.

Steps to recovery
It turns bleeding into a part of breathing
When I have so much to live for
I think of so many reasons to leave this reality.

A panacea well hidden
An attempt to achieve the forbidden
But not when there is quietness in my ear
Not when I am still here.

Steps to recovery
It involves a white building and an artery
Although I struggle to embrace tomorrow
I am ready to reach the last stage.

A desire for closure
An obsession for an immediate departure
But not before I can control these thoughts
Not before I become yours.

Passing the Test

Together with my driving tests
It is something I always seem to fail
And it is just like a driving test
You just don’t come back to the Centre.

But I enjoy life, I aspire to see tomorrow
Life is so beautiful that you wish to preserve it
Forever. It is a test that only few can pass.
Each attempt gets you closer to the destination.

Such a fantasy, such a temptation!
The evanescence of an ambivalent reality
Betrays the examiner, falsifies the test route
My hands are tied to the steering wheel.

The sentient battle begins within me
Everybody is given a provisional licence
Like an instructor, they don’t care why you drive
They simply give you directions and a car.

But there is no turning back, once you
Pass the test. Your full licence is fatal.
Do I need one, or do I simply want one?
Who knows? Perhaps one day I will pass.

How futile, how unimaginative!
As long as I still have the innate ability to drive
There is always optimism. Selfishly,
My right foot slowly moves to the accelerator.

Captive

Programmed to destroy, I am a disciplined hostage
In free air, a captive blinded by
The darkness of the unconscious. An error
In judgement has occurred. Not in perception, but
No external stimuli could have evoked the same response.
Am I in control or under control? My very sense of autonomy
Is under attack, the illusion of a comprehensible self
Disappearing like a snowflake in April. Yet Reality alone
Cannot cure this disease of humanity. A green tablet
Confirms the diagnosis of an alternative hypothesis.

Trying to break the code of passivity, it is hard
To imagine that nothing has ever happened.
What seems real becomes real, and those thoughts
Integrate with a strange voice, like another
Conspiracy theory. A brain without a mind
Is eternal bliss. I have yet to achieve this state.
When self-awareness creates an intrusive atmosphere
Of nihilism, I’d rather devote myself
To the other side of all existence. Reality itself
Is like a red eye with many pupils. But what it sees

Remains a mystery.

Disintegration

I remember
When every breeze of fresh air carried a special message
But I don’t remember
When my life abandoned me, leaving the world

Colourless.

I remember
When the future shone through the curtains each morning
But I don’t remember
When the Self departed from my mind, creating a black hole of

Nothingness.

I remember
When I used to take reality for granted, just like the hopes for tomorrow
But I don’t remember
When the first thoughts disappeared, converting my brain into

Emptiness.

I remember
When I expected the next season to be bright and fruitful
But I don’t remember
When my eyes began to wither, memories forming a river of

Hopelessness.

I remember
When I was in control of all my cognitive processes
But I don’t remember
When my own consciousness disintegrated, rendering everything

Meaningless.

I remember, I remember…

I don’t remember.

The Power of Insomnia

The power of insomnia
Eyes wide open
Yet I am still dreaming of the self
In a different reality.

The onset of paranoia
Body lies still
Yet I can sense the line of vision
In this all-consuming darkness.

The force of catatonia
Ears tightly covered
Yet I am still listening to the footsteps
With fearful obedience.

The power of insomnia
Nervous system down
Yet I can feel her existence
With paradoxical reassurance.

Her Smile

She is painting a big smile
As the New Year’s present for herself.

The smile belongs to her and her alone
A closely guarded secret.

She does it with exceptional precision
Just like a real smile.

The price for her expertise is pain and numbness
A spontaneous reaction.

She has almost completed the picture
Soon the effects will be final.

The inspiration brings a crimson tide
A sweet little voice.

It is the only alternative for a coward like herself
The 60th smile on her wrist-

But the end is still a long long way away.

Wanting to Die

By Anne Sexton

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love whatever it was, an infection.

The Trigger

I have done my very best
In order to achieve the ultimate contradiction
A series of failures.

She has done her very best
In order to exert the omnipotent control
A chain of commands.

A single thought that acts as a trigger
A poisonous bullet named ‘Reality’-
We are still alive.

I have considered everything
Looking for the meaning of my own perception
The price is destruction.

She has considered everything
Looking for the beauty of her own existence
The result is nothingness.

An unquiet mind destroyed by peace
An infectious disorder termed ‘the Self’-
Are we still alive?

I have found the answer
Another delusion created in the air of sanity
No time to say goodbye.

She has found the answer
Another fantasy written in the blood of vanity
No reason to stay awake.

The futility of being within me
The melody of dying within her
We are no longer alive.

Will I really have the courage to pull the trigger?

Emergency

The appearance of a single thought
Counting towards a medical emergency- You know
It’s all written in your genes, yet still
Accepting the fact seems so frightening.

The formulation of another doubt
Leading towards a foreseeable relapse- You know
It’s nothing but a chemical imbalance, yet still
Setting it right seems so painstaking.

(You look into me until you become me.
I look into you until I am no longer myself.)

The persistence of a single voice
Showing the ticket to a memorable event- I know
There is a way back, a shortcut, yet still
Facing the aftermath seems so heartbreaking.

The manipulation of another choice
Twisting the pathway to a forthcoming recovery- I know
There is a cure, a desperate remedy, yet still
Saying goodbye seems so tempting.

Spare Time

It only happens in her spare time
An erroneous ideation
She wants to stop the thoughts
But she doesn’t know why they are here.

It makes her afraid of losing her self
A false perception
She wants to stop the voices
But she doesn’t know where they come from.

It forces her to escape from herself
A cognitive distortion
She wants to stop the behaviour
But she doesn’t know how to begin or end.

Then other people would ask her,
What do you normally do in your spare time?
The emphasis is on the adverb
What is normal?

She seeks reality through a delusion
She keeps her thoughts in her blood
She questions her own existence
She finds her only hope in a yellow tablet.

This is how she spends her spare time
So please don’t call it deceptive
When she tries to convince you
That self-destruction is addictive.