I am sick of it

There’s always it about which one is sick.

Does it even really matter what the content within it might be? It is morphing, moving, ever-changing, like the ubiquitous they.

There is only the acknowledgement of the crossing of the threshold, over into the complete sickness of it, and for a while, we simply quit. Systems shut down. Whatever you can identify as some aspect of yourself – all those endless bleeding heaps of body, mind, soul, consciousness, sense, interpretation, mood, preference, style – all of these fuse in a rare moment of union at the moment when you cross that boundary condition.

Everything, everything says “that’s enough.” We – I – Us – are one! SICK of IT.

Danger, danger! Bad things could happen here. Voices: Run! Snap! Attack! But the best among the limited choices is probably – down! SLEEP!

Sometime later, we recover enough, find that we have regained the ability to navigate around again, through and despite “it.” Wordlessly – without a sound or a thought – we slipped back under that threshold. Or maybe it just backed off to regroup, waiting for another weak, dark (hormonal?) moment.

It is an ever-mutating cluster. To be able to look at the current constellation without despair or anger or fear is difficult, sometimes impossible. This is why we have spiritual heroes – because we think maybe that they can, however flawed they might be otherwise.

You might be able to subtract feelings, but what is the method to transform or add? All these years – all these studies – make me spit in disgust when IT looms. Worth nothing. Meditation, empathy, dreamtime, ritual, positive thought, body position – deflectors, not solutions. Everything seems pointless, meaningless – even hostile, murderous.

  • Where is your it in the spectrum of the people you know, the people you’ve read, the people you’ve heard of?
  • Do you avoid knowing about it?
  • Is there any value in at least registering and recognizing it?

My it might look like small beans to one person, and as an insurmountable mountain of horror to someone else.

All that I can do anymore is either monitor the reality of the hovering it – or else lie, and perform a happy happy dance (but happiness is momentary, not like this recurring, slimy, creepy encroachment always already ready). I understand how people have projected demons. It almost has a presence of its own.

Although the emotional feeling is of something over and against me, it is mine. It can only be mine, the construct of all the current struggles, real or imagined, the ad nauseum repetitions of argument and ignorance and all the things that bring disgust and anger and hopelessness and depression and alienation and – there are too many words for this separation and conflict. Spare me any platitudes about control or self-determination, I beg of you.

  • I slice it with a flaming sword.
  • I blow fire and smoke at it from my dragon’s mouth.
  • I try to charm it, or absorb it.
  • I try to dismiss or ignore it.

How many methods can there be for continuing on despite it? I don’t have the talent or the spiritual maturity or the delusional stance that could accept it. All that really matters to me now is that I keep recovering from the sickness shutdown, that every time I cross the threshold into the infinite sickness of it, that I continue to choose shutdown, not flight or fight or self-destruction. Just isolate, nest, sleep, reboot.

IT will be better in the morning. IT will be better tomorrow. Bits of progress against IT, but then SLAM! backslide! Again, again, hope as a dream of an escaped Sisyphus. And then I look around and pray that there’s something better, in another dimension, up in space. And I understand why people cling to ideas of an afterlife.

IT is IT.

IT never becomes Thou, not ever.

IT will kill you if you turn your back. There is no “between” to construct.

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