The Doctor’s Office : Act 5

I’ve never needed to explain ANYTHING that wasn’t a fictional explanation used to reach my goal, to get my necessities, and even then when I am existing in the back of my mind, distant, and throwing words and phrases from the front and top of my head and out.  As I sit on this couch it seems as if my agenda is quite different, and the frustration has set in, as I exist on the front-and-center of my mind and reach back and into it trying to tie things together these things that have happened to me as of late, and where I am.

I attempted to make my escape, to tread this new path on the out and up, only to crash against these unknown forces which place me in scenarios I do not understand, and now I am using this couch as I lay on it to pull these things out from the recesses and string some sort of cohesive thought to them, and right now I am failing, and I look up and he is looking at me with his hand on his chin, brow furrowed, not like the usual but with the distance, the far-away.

It seems as if I’m getting a spoon or pill or needle of my own medicine, to take liberally from an overused metaphor, because I am alone in deciphering this mystery which very much has taken into account my steps and plans as cracks and other disturbances are starting to appear where they once were not.  And I have other things on my mind such as the result (no one else has time to consider the result!) and the details should be minor, nothing to see here and nothing to alter the path except when it DOES, such as now, and I am left to my own (now meager) devices to understand the how and the why, and even the when, although I can’t remember when, and I look down at my watch that still is saying 5:30 and IT is not telling me when, at all.

I cover my eyes to look deeper, to see the lights behind my eyelids like I usually see, the constellations that morph quickly into firestorms and meteor showers, and I am still, looking for the shapes.  And for once I do not see any.  Only black, darkness.  I throw my hands down in disgust and blurt out an expletive and look

To nothing.  I mean, I see another chair, some random books on a shelf, a barred window presumably to the outside, and the humming of the lights above.  But no one else.  I am now alone, and I sit up to rub my eyes and look again and again realize I am by myself, as it grows quieter.

These times, I’m having, they are not for me.  They are for someone else.  I will read about these times, close the book, and then move on to my more important tasks.  But the book, it will not close, and it is open to the one chapter I don’t want to read, and I read the same line over and over and over and over, and over.  At some point I will start to nod off, because I realize I have come across some words turned into ideas that my head at this point is not willing to overcome …