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Shadowboxing

July 14, 2009

I’m on a Distillers binge again.  The rough edges of the music and Brody’s voice scrub out my brain nicely.  Why would it need scrubbing?  About a month ago I burst into hysterical tears.  I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe except in gasps between what sounded like strangled hiccups.  Something cracked.  I wish I had an idea what.

I don’t cry very often.  I didn’t even want to this time, but tears kept pouring out of me of their own accord.  I sobbed until the whites of my eyes looked red and the irises green, thinking all the while that I was fine.  The flood ended only when I fell asleep hours later.  It’s strange and a little bit frightening to think that there is something lurking in my mind that can make me collapse in despair.  I’m sure I don’t have anything to cry about on that scale.  Yet I did.

For the four hundred thousandth time I’m incredibly glad someone invented punk.  (I credit the Ramones, but that debate can rage for hours).  The constant driving at fear and depression until it gives way to a moment of calm is exactly what I need right now.  It’s what I need every day.

Sometimes my brain is wildly incoherent.  Never a dull moment, she said with a wry smile.

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