Category Archives: Borderline

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”



Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Storm (A Narrative)

“You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” —Haruki Murakami—

That’s what the storms all about.

That’s what dominates me. That’s part of the condition, “its my disorder honey.” I tell her again and again, ad infinitum.
It’s this sharp ache in my spine where love threw a fist and broke through my heart. It’s every part of me in agony.

From the heights of the Alps, I once flew over, where peering down, I watched dolphins point up their smiling faces and open a passage through the sea. It’s that lost gateway of a dark unknown island that suddenly opens before me.

I have this feeling that I’m on top of the world. I’m in love with life itself. The birds are singing to me.

I love you, it could be as simple as the way you hold your leg up, and your muscle makes a flex that stimulates a sexual desire. It could be the way you smile and flick your hair, or just that indifference you exude that makes me crave you, even though we are absolute strangers.

Deep within I am dreaming of the perfect love, the ultimate one, craving affection and dreaming of perfection.

I never show my face, I keep up this mask, I alter my colours, a constant sense of fluctuation, of adaptation. I blend in, I seem in place, as in place as the furniture, until someone breaks a table or shatters a glass, and the whole scene melts down like an oil painting and dissolves. Then I realize nothing is in place, nothing at all.

What do you want me to be? How should I act? What words should I speak? I feel I am one word away from total dysfunction, total annihiliation. Choose the wrong word and the hammer falls. It’s a guillotine conversation. You have been judged as deserving death. I came to have fun. I came to relax. And the blade draws ever closer.

What I feel is a raging storm inwardly. What you see is a calm smile of acceptance, of defeat, of grace and conformity.

I want to sleep with someone, anyone who looks lovely and gentle. Please I just want to lay by your side. Hold me. If you touch me, or let me touch you,  you’re in danger of becoming God, most wouldn’t mind being held in such high esteem, but I assure you, you are going to fall. Every God falls eventually. So just lie very still, don’t move. Be like a statue. You are so beautiful. I don’t think there is any one else on earth with such beauty as yours. I want to stare forever in your eyes, please don’t leave, if you go away, it all dies. It’s all going to die if you show me your human side. But then suddenly it may all come back to life again.

It’s like you’re a stone Goddess, who only appears to those with the power to see such magic. You are pure magic to me. Every single strand of your hair must have been placed there by Midas, look how it shines, so golden. You must not care, don’t get too close. Just let me admire you. Don’t admire me back. Don’t feel, be like stone. Like a statuesque masterpiece. Be all sentiment, be gentle, when you kiss me, mean it with every drop of blood that flows through you, be sensual, be passionate, if you don’t mean it, I will sense it, and then you will shatter again. Please don’t shatter. Please love me. Come close. You’re too far. Touch me. Show me that you love me, as no one else ever has, as no one ever can.

The temperature in hell is too hot for our instruments to record. The blackest black, like coal has covered over everything. I am alone. I can only think of one thing, how to die. How to die fast, quickly before the moment passes and I lose my courage.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Everything has stopped. Everyone is gone. The carousel is broken. Nothing is free. The guards have imprisoned the very song that inspired movement in us. We can’t dance to utter silence, to the sound of desolation. There’s no reason to go on. Stop this ride. I want to get off. It has stopped? Why don’t I feel anything? I have no sense of time, no sense of existing at all. It’s numb. It’s hollow. Nothing is real.

Be my friend. Be with me. Say you’ll be my friend and really mean it. But tomorrow it all stops. I lost my money. I’m all out of lucky coins. This world takes coins to make it go around. I must find that Goddess, the one with the gilded hair and perfect beauty. She really loves me. Everything she touches turns magic. She could make the music play, she could cause the earth to turn again.

Don’t look at me that way. You look at me as though I’m from another world. But something in your eyes, it’s like you have put my soul into an x-ray machine. I have to leave now. If I stay I might die.

Who am I? Maybe I am made of stone. I need something anything hard, anything sharp, to see if I really exist. To see if I can feel. If I can feel I must be real. But I can’t feel anything. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The numbness is gone. I feel pure euphoria.This is so beautiful. Your eyes are like rare jewels. The way you look inside me makes me feel like I’m standing before the Taj Mahal. It’s nothing my love, just a little blood, it didn’t hurt, it felt good. It means I am real. You must forgive me. I got lost. I got really lost and it went very black like the darkest tunnel and then you smiled and it’s all better now. The birds are singing for us, the music, I feel the music. It’s like someone opened a very old cage where all the beauty lived. And now that it’s free, nothing could ever be ugly. Everything is so alive it is as though the rhythm of all life flows to this music and its all interconnected and so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful I think I can’t even stand it. It breaks my heart.

I want to move away. Anywhere. Baudelaire once said that all life is a hospital and he wished that he were anywhere out of this world. Will you go with me to that place? If I have to go alone, I will. I’m not afraid.

I’ve forgotten what I came here for. I was working so hard to make it shine. It’s just dull. It lacks something. I know I said I wanted to be something, but I forgot why I wanted to be it. So you see, none of that matters anymore. Take back the coins, stop that annoying noise and tell everyone to go back to wherever they came from, forget it, you can all stay, I’m leaving.

The woman with the gold turned into a psychopath. She never loved me and her hair was not real gold, just some cheap drugstore dye that came in a box. I gave her everything. I lost it all.

I laugh furiously at the trials and tribulations of this sad stranger, who rides along with me. Who the hell is she and where did she come from? Why won’t she stop tormenting me with her needs and her dreams? She’s always making me jump through fire. I’m tired of getting burned. It seems we are fused together. I have no idea how it happened. I just wish she would leave, but she needs me, I’m kind of like her oxygen. We need eachother to breathe.

On the one hand I love her fiercely and understand her every move and motion, she’s like my best friend. I have never loved anyone this much. She knows everything about me. Exactly where to touch me, when to let me be, what I want and who I am. On the other hand she has no clue, and I think she’s an enemy. She doesn’t deserve the same air, she must go very soon. If she goes I go. It’s a deal then. We don’t belong anywhere, were just drifters, just a couple of lost little girls in a big scary world and it’s ugly out there. People are monsters. No one truly gets us or loves us, its just words they use. It’s all lies. They don’t even feel. They don’t know the first thing about what it means to feel. They are all fake, they are all just polished people with rust in their souls.

I loved her. I really loved her with all of me.

I don’t even know who I am. I’ve forgotten.

If the whole world forgets, I will be okay, as long as she remembers me.

As long as she knows I was real. I was real and I loved her, once upon a time, when the world shined and her eyes were paradise, they brought me around the world in a moment, and when she held me, I came alive, she came alive, everything was magic and music, everyone danced and opened their doors to welcome us. We were royalty.

I don’t know what to do now. Now that the music has died and all the magic has faded.

I think I’ll just lay here. And imagine her by my side. It’s enough to know she exists and that she was once mine. And though I may never find anyone else like her, one can always dream.

I woke up to a storm today. Else it began sometime last night, I’ve lost all sense of time and meaning. I don’t recall who I am, or where I am meant to be. But I’ll put on this costume and pretend I’m happy, because I know how to hide better than anyone. This mask is like a second skin, I wear it like a chameleon.

In your world you just want the best types of players who get along, put on a smile and know their role, know where to be and how to act. I can be that for you. I can be whatever you say I should be.

I am nobody after all.

Hello I’m nobody. I come from nowhere. I am going nowhere. I have a dream but I don’t know why. It’s not my dream. Someone gave it to me as a prize for making it out alive.

And then. Well then we die. Right. Everyone dies.

But it’s okay because I seem to fit well here. I seem to really blend in with the ambience, no matter where I go, or who I’m with, there I am. I’m home and you are my favourite person, no wait, she is my favourite, you are just a substitute, but you’ll have to do. All of you, I love you and you adore me, until I say the wrong word, or a hair gets out of place, or I get too much in your way, and then your love is a razor blade, it cuts me open and I bleed gold, and the colder you are, the richer I become.

So make me shine, because it doesn’t matter, the glass was already shattered. It shattered long before you or her or anyone else. It shattered inside, and I gathered all the pieces and filled in all the gaps with gold, like kintsikouri, and you said, look at her she is so together, but you had no idea I was a million times broken, and I smiled that broken smile, and you mistook me for one of your own. It all went well until it didn’t go well anymore. For ten solid years I came each day at the same hour on the bell, and then the bell stopped and I howled like a wolf and made my way back to the forest.

And all the dreams I carried in my basket turned into bees, scorpions, vipers, stinging things, that poisoned my pure heart.

Then you spoke in wolfish tones, and offered me your bones in exchange for my body.

And my soul broke off and rose above me, like a hungry bird, a vulture. It circled around me and screeched in my eyes.

Halting. This. Life.

I lost all vision. Blacker than the darkest depths of the stormiest sea.

And when I emerged, I was free.


Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Borderline, Broken, Emotions, Narrative


Look at me, the armless statue, the gaping silence, the doom daughter. I called to leave a message, told you I was going away to a place where you couldn’t find me, and they called out my name in the streets, stared down into murky water under bridges. I lay hidden in a boat, a broken mess of unsailable hope. I was covered in my own poison, utterly soaked, and no one ever found me, until I awoke sober and ashamed. I walked barefoot through traffic towards my home, wolf breath, the bully blowing smoke, laughing me black like withered ash, dark resin, the scrape of a ghost over glass. I want to be the Woodswoman of daily syringes, walk detecting steel in my blood. You enter me endlessly, a stranger,  a lost mast, what the wind blew in, what the comets dropped. Starchild, black hole, cyclone. I unwill your fluid gaze from the body of ice, my mother, the antichrist. Screaming walls, screaming falls down tubes not meant to hold. The kicking, the kicking, the termination. I bleed it out of me 12, 20 and 6. It breaks even, no placenta, only this warm gush in the morning, in the moon tide, unwanted. My arms are my arms are…look what I hold, this is not yours, this is not mine, this will not keep,  a thousand emptied syringes, a highway leading out, high tide, low sun, afterglow of spent agony. In bed with a stranger again, father, the water, the sky, the hell fire, a triangle of incongruity.

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Filed under Addiction, Alcoholism, Borderline, Depression, Pain, Poem, poetry


I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing