Alls Well

I am looking over my shoulder mentally like I have not rubbed down the gloss work

before adding a new coat of paint. I am free to feel this way. I know what to do.

Possible futures beckon. The present. I know when I am in the present. When I am

writing the present becomes… …all sorts of trickery. The future is in my mind when I

am typing. I am thinking ‘this will be read’ by someone other than me. I wonder what

they are like. I sometimes write the first thing that comes into my head. Other times I

select carefully the words, each word at a time, until I have a sentence. My novel

seems a long way off. Schizophrenia is a name. Imagine a picture book with words

then block out everything else and add the names of neural chemical messengers with

action names like ‘inhibitor’ to the picture book with words that are now speaking

loudly in your head. Your mind is fixed on a look, a word, a fear and it’s like a

doorstop wedging open the floodgates to paranoia/some other dimension/a terrible

place. You see a colour, yellow for example and suddenly you are being called a

coward or being compared to gangrenous discharge or typhoid diarrhoea. You see

ceiling and your mind counts the noises like white lines on the road, inevitable, evenly

spaced, there for a purpose. You peer and wonder about your peers. I made that bit up

– the bit about your peers but I have done in the past, I am not making you to party to

a conspiracy of mine. Just when I had your attention, as well. All’s well.

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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