Shiver me Shiva, deliver me from the hotboxed thinking; the sinking ego of fire falling from the skytime dayze.
And nights, fights and flights…I fancy a dance me into the soul destroyer.
Sold, to the man in the fluffy hat.
Today that’s me.
Or perhaps not. I have been so depressed for the past few months. Every single day feels like a chore.
But it’s the worst kind of depression, because it has set in as a lazy malaise; a miasma of irrefutable boredom that cannot the fuck be bothered.
I sat in a hotpool tonight, next to my sister. The moon was full and the lights of the public spa lit two of my ataahua nieces, as they danced in the warm light of the woollen pools. I am pretty lucky, cos my mum is the duty manager, so we can swim there whenever we like for free. And yet still I feel poor.
The universe delivered me a bed today, at no cost, it just turned up on a cousin ferried trailer.
I feel like shit.
I bit the bullet and said to myself tonight, “I don’t want to live anymore, life is so hard”. “I need to get out of my head”, was also something I repeated twice, but out aloud.
If anything, I need to embrace myself in my embodied research process.
How can I view the world in such deficit ways when it is so full and rich. I mean, I shit you not, after I finish these cones I am going to sit on my mother’s deck and smoke a menthol. Her little house is closer to the lake than most are lucky enough to live next to.
The kids are playing in a room next door. Four of them, all pa kids from different whanau.
Teenagers, they all live at our whare in the weekends and on holidays (and during the week too!).
I feel crowded out, and yet I am in virtue because I am nestled in the bosom of the pa.
We just got ranked as residing in the lowest suburb for living by some census stats. And yet there is so much aroha here…and drama, did I mention drama?
The news always tells us how shit we are. It becomes hard to see reality amongst the din of our TV dream. Playfights turn into knives and guns. Excuse the pundit for always being so right. I am out of breath with it all. The falling’s forever, for air I am lost, with gusto. Transaction finished.
This no money fiasco is really what I am truly over. I am indeed over ways to describe this petulant kind of self-pity punishment. But I know that it comes ultimately from within myself, so even though the media mirror holds its own reflection, I know it’s my own bullshit… so I feel sick. This is for realz going through the motions and I know that it is soon to pass.
Which is why it sucks to have this kind of depression, because there is no winning, just a winding back to the point where I am pleasant and chipper again. I’ll get there, eventually. I have been working it out, but it has been a boring escapade. My skin has turned to shit and I have a coldsore… again!
Weights, swimming, sleeping, bits and pieces of chores, it’s the routine I need. The embattled pattern of persistent rhymes. I am getting there, even if it feels like my brain is killing me to tears.
Even acid rain can’t explain away the pain of poverty forgiving itself.
And so, in a week from now I reckon I will have reconciled the rapture of peeling back another layer, my pilgrimage to the mid-inbetween. I reckon, a week from now I will recognise I have won and lost… owned and given up to the battle, worshiped cattle, though the prongs pinged their electric waves goodbye, the steaks were blackened; the old life of forgetfulness has been tazered into oblivion.
That’s the lazy way I sway on the prancefloor, I feel like I’m waiting to fry me alive.
Live another day, cry another fray, just don’t ask me to fall in the dust and wither.
Shiver me Shiva, but warm on the inside, I’m done with running away to hide.