Friday, April 28, 2006
This post lacks elegance and efficiency in words, but I'm too damn sick to care. I spent this afternoon with my Dad. He's a cool guy, but doesn't know or understand my problems at all. Partially, that's because I haven't told him in a way he can understand. The blog is a big part of my efforts to explain myself, and maybe find some sympathy or friendship along the way. I don't write this just for my own satisfaction; everyone's understanding is important to me. I tried to explain the lines to my Dad today; it was a miserable failure. I also tried to explain how a hallucination or a delusion differs from just sensory input. Any description of a hallucination is a compromise between your reality and mine. It's not exactly what I say it is, but the rest of the world cannot understand the closeness of my psychosis or the undeniability of its presence. Seeing the Many Armed Knight isn't like watching someone goof off at the Renaissance Festival. He stalks me, not the rest of you, me alone. He's a part of me and knows that only I can see him, knows that only I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. He knows himself and me completely. Every fear, every uncertainty, every anxious moment, and every spare moment he is there. The choir is not like a church choir. It goes deeper than that. It's a group of voices all saying different things while holding a note. They don't sing for you. They sing only for me. The sound doesn't enter my ear, it comes around inside the ear, and occupies my hearing in the spaces the rest of you don't take. Prester Bane is more than a faceless man in my nightmares. He knows me better than any of you. In many ways, he's my best friend. He never ignores me, and we converse more than anyone else bothers to say to me. I made bits of him myself, and he's done the same. We're intermingled, just like all my delusions and hallucinations. I can't tell where they end, and I begin.