I get asked what I've been doing to correct this situation,
As if I've been idle and coasted through some respite or vacation,
As if I haven't had to live through stopping short of every expectation,
Nothing in life prepared me for the chance I'd lose my mind,
There was illness in my family but nothing of this kind,
Had I known I'd have planned things out in dreadful anticipation.
Science has shown that memories are encoded while we sleep,
That short-term turns to long-term for the things we need to keep,
And what's left is then discarded- ceased from being left to steep,
But for me there's some malfunction and though I sleep and often dream,
The memories stay suspended- colloidal like butterfat in cream,
And I'm left searching for contextual clues amongst the spoiled heap.
Have you ever needed post-it notes to remind you who you are?
Then compared them with how you used to be- that potential rising star?
Trying to perform the skills you've learned feels like pulling them from tar?
I get up each morning to another thing I can no longer seem to do,
Crippled, crawling on the earth with only memories of when I flew,
Self-doubt instills in you this deep belief that you should have never come this far.
If you think that's the worst part you haven't thought through this disease,
A funny thing begins to happen when your memories are no-longer trusted keys,
Insidious it starts to change from that pressure and unease,
It starts to feel like everything and everyone are just a dream,
Too nerve-damaged to pinch yourself; you seek to find and tear the seam,
Try to guess if what you heard was real or did acute sense hide hallucinatory tease?
Grieving while I'm still aware of missing parts of what was once a gestalt whole,
Mourning bleak disconnection from the ancient spirit in my soul,
In vain attempting to collect the contents spilling from this broken bowl,
And I'm admittedly guilty of collecting friends who also longed to die,
Gorged on range of their emotions when I was only capable of aloof detachment and a pseubulbar cry,
Collecting their experiences- what an ostentatious goal!
If I caused this all to happen, yes, then I admit regretting what I've done,
I'd admit the price does not measure up for those scattered bits of fun,
And I blame myself more than the excuse of natal positions of the planets around the sun,
Blame myself before I blame abuse by a father who himself had never seemed to heal,
Blame myself before the lover who broke my heart so deep I'd learn the hard way just how low mankind can feel,
Believing mistakes were all part of my destiny, spinning stories to justify the act of being spun.
Someday it will not matter because I'll lose awareness of this addled brain,
Whatever part of me that lingers here will be ignorant of no-longer being sane,
Perhaps that gesture shows the Holy Ghost is at least somewhat humane?
If any of you know me when that happens; consider this informed consent,
End this weary incarnation and hasten the time in sorrow spent,
Return me to the stuff of stars, release me from the pain.