I don't get forward with the last part. Difficult, to admit me, that the neurological disease impaired my brain more. To be able to think, I have to perform almost an exorcism. To be able to write. I have to or have to wake up and punch everything on me, It was possible for me last year, Before writing 20 Minutes to march. I returned sweat overflowed, With Techno Beat in the ear. And with enough anger and enough pressure.
I'm always angry, actually. always, If I differ differently than, strolling, sleeping. You have to imagine, that my body sleeps, The metabolism drops under earth, Like that of the marmot. This is the normal condition of my existence since this horrible Farce myalgicencephalomyelitis. And when I wake up, Then that's always brutal, A wake up by force, A devil exemption…( Because something else could embody the devil than a body, that pays for the basic need for the smallest movement?).
So I have to get angry, To do the necessary things, and, aggressive, Because that suggests me, It is powerful! By the way, I get angry, because I have no strength…. no nervous, which is also a physical one, that is nothing than overexcitation without a solid body. But I am also flat cognitive and mentally. Only the back of the head burns, the brain and very likely the brain stem. The neck is made of stone.
Also, Sickhouse: the place, to whom it ended. On which she is now standing. Where life came to a standstill after a last insane summer. The standstill after disappearing.
So I tell of two summers. Something happened in the first, especially a disaster, In the second there is nothing more. In the first she was still herself, still young. In the second old.
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She has seen herself as the sick? No! Surprisingly, she never did that, Although she is sick for a lifetime. But now, in Sickhouse, she recognizes itself from outside, Is she a sick person. In this second summer. In the Sined o Connor sang one last time: Nothing compares to you. Never, She never really wanted to get out of her skin beforehand! Now…. What happened?
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The burden of being different, This damn shit! Which once glittered.
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But yes, I should try, To introduce a cheeky sound. To this heavy, Mürb's things to tell. So, Like the early book. Then I should know, What I say where and when and paint, that I know, What I said, I cannot possibly keep more than one paragraph of three sentences in my memory. It is, As if everything was, What I write, Continue to burn with my brain…..
…I could cry….
cry over the crap, which my immune system and nervous system organize in me. And that this heat is a form of energy that I have absolutely nothing but anger, Adrenaline and unspeakable, Cold exhaustion, afterward.
But no, I can not write this chapter to the end. I have to sell myself, without motivation, create an artificial excitement, To be able to look at this story at all. I decided, to write them. Although it makes no difference, whether she is in me, in it. Or in words outside. Because even there she is still in me. And I will never be free. No, I don't get illusions.
If I wasn't free now, Free under these predicament, the best at the same time in this misery, Then there is no rendezvous with a future. I haven't understood it now, to freely create me out of my disappearance….