Zoloftesque

You should ask what’s wrong with me. It is five a.m.; my limbs are quiet. Outside, hot rods, muscle cars, biceps, sounds like bass and mufflers flood my head. Too early for la policia. Too early for me. You should ask what is revolution; it’s the dark matter of bullshit or the light bulb of new ideas. It is America, still.
I felt the cold and wanted more. The cold was so familiar that it stung in its name and its action. My bed is cold; and I know that I am not a good enough person to fill a whole, empty bed by myself.
Winter time, adding more curtains to my windows, adding more covers to my body, adding more distance between me and the world. I had been down and withdrawn in this womb of an apartment for so long; I had changed. My thoughts and actions swayed toward fantasy. The idiocy of being even slightly mentally ill is that the supposedly sane judge your mind. Take the term psychotic for instance: psychosis can be a detachment from reality, but most just accept the 'Psycho' Hitchcock film to be some sort of bible on psychotics.
To feel is painful and at times, near impossible to bear. I feel so much that it hurts. My nerves are a radar to the hurt inside the worlds' body. What’s wrong with anyone? It depends on who is judging.
In public, I feel accosted by the outside world. Psychology has made me take into account most of my environment in a kaleidoscope. The sad old woman in the grocery store, I want to get inside her head. What was she thinking? Was she happy, in this store, with overpriced, mildly toxic food and her glimmering, one dead wheeled cart?
I’ve done my time; I have listened to advice from good friends and surgeons. I have tried to become non devilish in my actions. But, this guilt follows me around, and it never did before. Someone needs to cast it out, its too great a weight for me to bear.