Exactly. Brilliant. Yes. Not due, in my case, to therapy — much bigger fish &etc., — the remnant of malfunctions and I’m stuck between stupid and sick, again. I once had ‘hope’ (most insidious!) a long, long time back, an active participant in maintaining a status quo, but I lost it (hope, participation) when I realized that my larger problems were organic and that it was this (be here now!) or a bit of brain slice-n-dice and I wasn’t up for that.


Dr. A---- -------- — a jewel — told me that I might not find solace in the daily output of my hypergraphia if I insisted on having written well. I find that I cannot, after all, write, or live, well: I’m too fragile for that and time is much, much too fleeting.


So, I’m like you; no one to save me, no one to love me, unable to live well as my time here grows shorter. Maybe it’s an either/or conundrum? I’m too tired to think it through.


By the force of will I’ve avoided victimhood, preferring to be thought mad rather than mean. And so I have been. Has it mattered? I don’t know.


Oh, the things that I don’t know!





***redefine happiness***