I feel blind. Without my medication there is no poetry, no desire to write… I see words and thoughts, but they slip from my grasp like smoke. There is just a blank sheet. It feels like a disease… like I am a child again. I hate this feeling. I seem to only be able to express myself in short sentences. I don’t feel like conversing. I hate you. I hate me. It will get better… just not today. Not today.
They walk by the window and observe the closed sign hanging from a chain. It is an oddity, a puzzle. There is just nothing here right now.