You Prayed for Rain; I Prayed for Blindness

The Crazy is gone--it dribbled out like water from my broken faucet, ran down the drain, fled the armies of invading chemicals.

The subtle difference between this 25 mgs seems like the leap between oceans, the distance between Earth and, appropriately, Mars. A difference that I, perhaps, am only aware of--the difference between merely thinking casually about razors and holding myself back from driving to get them. The difference between feeling a bit down and wanting to throw myself into that sadness. A different quality in sleep, a minute change in the timbre of colors I see.

Sounds are different; the nuances of words are not static. What one person said last week, I could read one way, but a new way now. Things are more clear, more as they seem. That hint of sarcasm does not escape me, and yet it doesn't speak to me [only me] either. The words in graffiti are meant for everyone, I now see, no matter how much I would have thought that I was the only one paying attention.

The secrets of the world--their pieces have once again flown out of place. I am now more still, more at rest, less kinetic with [perhaps] more potential: my energy has been conserved, but redistributed. I can lie in bed and breathe--I, once again, find peace in this stillness. I read the aches of my body like a well-worn page, stop pushing and remember to listen. The sound of my breath in my lungs is a symphony--I do not hyperventilate, and I do not think--too long, at least--about what would happen if that breath was to stop. Although it does not pulsate at the back of my eyelids, sleep comes when invited, with the slip of thumb in mouth, lids pressed together. I am aware of myself--that I am happy. In the street, when I'm trying to talk on the phone through well-played interruptions, I laugh my laugh.

The come-down feels like it should be disappointing. But it's not.