Feeling the Air; not dead, quite yet at least...

 Pretentious though it may seem to title this post in that way, but even I'm a bit taken aback as to how long it's been since I've last added any content to this page. It's been nearly five god damned years since I actually posted something. I will put it simply as to why (I think) there's been a dearth of new content. I have had chronic, years-long writer's block for the past several years, particularly since I began daily doses of sertraline medication. I had, and still have panic disorder and the medication has helped to keep relevant episodes at bay (it seemed like with each consecutive panic attack, the symptoms got more concerning, even frightening), and I suspect that this therapy has played a part in my struggle with writer's block.

Infrequently I have had some creativity bleed through the melancholy, but hardly ever enough to break that block completely. Until this Monday of an evening, where I was inspired to write a passage in prose and share it right here. I intend for this to be part of a whole, but as for following through on this endeavor, that's up in the air. 

Without further ado...

At Once, At Length

Consider the following fact: when an individual who is wracked with pain (of the physical sort) throughout their entire person, their limbic system is likely to kick in, for lack of a better phrase, to facilitate a temporary state of bliss. So why then, in my case, does this process not transpire in defiance of a literal cascade of immense pain? I have tried numerous avenues of escape from this state of being, including self-inflicted dermal injury, and quaffing an unknown volume of opioid. Alas, I am as yet deprived of a much-desired reprieve. I suppose the only viable course of action to take would be to immerse myself all at once, at length in the sanguine depths concealed mere meters below my ancestral home. It couldn’t hurt to consider, given its success in achieving states of higher being on previous occasions. I will notify the attendants of my desperate intent, whose indentured duty is to oversee the crimson basin (normally carried out by means of flagellation of the said-same attendants), but that’s a formality as far as I am concerned.