Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

ablation

I fall. I let myself fall. I sink. I hit rock bottom. I don’t resist. I say nothing. I am damaged. They damaged me because I wouldn’t be able to do it otherwise. I grin and bear it. Stagnant water traverses my body. I have no strange words to pronounce. My tongue is heavy. My tongue fell down. Nothing could get it moving again. It ’s the hollowness, the large hole, that sucks me in. I don’t have bad thoughts. I know it is important to go through it and that af ter all of this, depression will distance itself from me. I will not triumph over depression but it will abandon me. What state will I recuperate into? I do not dare to imagine. My wanderings in the void of my current life occupies me rather well, so I am not suffering or doing poorly. I look at the time on my alarm

clock. Everything is frozen and I am at the bottom of the hole — a well, or a pit. Animal bones, dirty rocks, extinguished candles, dirt, and the suf focating smell of piss. Yes, I will eventually need to leave here, quit this hole and emerge, like a tired swimmer who decides to return to dry land. So, what happens? This all is a part of the recovery from the operation. I repeat that to myself. A small bit of depression af ter the ablation; or maybe worse: depression after too much pressure. Nothing gives anything away to me. No need to panic. Just some patience and perseverance. I have to piss. A bit later, my pajama pants are wet. My sheets are stained. I should move. Go! Get up! I count to three… One, two… three.

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