Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

lifeline

I feel like if I stop writing, I'll sink below the surface and drown.

There is a disconnection that I feel here. I know I am terminal on this
project. I'm in a lull where the code I have written works, and it's the
other pieces that need to be fixed, and the next piece I need to add
hasn't been defined well enough yet for me to do specific coding. I have
the stubs in place to handle it, but nothing behind them because the
pieces that need to handle the majority of the work are far from ready
and have nothing there to connect to.

I think I'm keeping the futon couch down here for another couple of
weeks. It's a comfort thing really; that's a big piece that indicates
that I'm really gone, and right now there are a lot of times when I just
want to curl up on the couch and hide under a blanket and watch a movie.

The primary connection that I have to people right now is online. And I
can't receive anything at work, I can only send. It's a tenuous
connection at best: the words pouring out here might make it or they
might not; I can only hope they do.

If I stop, I have to think. And right now that is the furthest thing
from where I want to be. I want to be down, hiding, being comforted,
told that everything will be all right, that nothing will ever be bad
again. Close my eyes, make the world go away, except for your touch and
your calm soothing voice. Except you don't exist anymore do you? If you
ever existed at all.

It's all become too big to comprehend, like it grew to planet-sized in
the darkness and it hovers just over the horizon, stale and dark, dead
as stone.

I close my eyes, and I see myself on the ocean, dead-gray sky overhead,
emptiness as far as I can see. A trick of the mind and the sky and the
ocean blend together and become one, a seamless, featureless void,
distant white noise the only sense of existence. I touch the water, cold
and wet, the only texture, fleeting.

A blink, and I am in the rocky desert, night. Cold blue stone, stars
overhead the only light. Paths are worn into the rock from millions of
unknown pilgrimages along these desert walkways.

Dissociation.
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