I must press the cluster of grapes and pour its essence, spoon by spoon, down the dry throat of this old shadow. Because at this moment all my restless thoughts belong to here and now, it is difficult to know where to begin. My thoughts do not recognize any hour, minute or history.
For me, something that happened yesterday might be more ancient, or less effectual, than an event that took place a thousand years ago.
Perhaps the reason for the appearance of all these reminiscences is the fact that all my relations with the world of the living are now severed, past, future, hour, day, month, and year all have become the same. These stages make sense to the ordinary people, to the rabble—yes, that is the exact word I was looking for
—rabble with two b’s. These stages apply to the rabble because, like the seasons of the year, their lives have recognized divisions and limits and because they live in the temperate zone of life.
My life, on the other hand, my entire life, has had one season and one state. Even though a constant flame burns in the center of my body and, like a candle, melts me away, my life is in a cold zone, in eternal darkness.
The Blind Owl
I try to apply the corrective lens of reason to everything I think and feel.
Is something or someone good or bad?
How do I know?
What is DID?
It is relentless fear and confusion.
It is a longing for respite.
It is a cry of despair in a world that normalizes abuse.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2015-2017-2018 Revised 10/07/2018