What is a mood, I wonder?
What is a way of thinking—this way or that?
One moment having one feeling, the next, another, and then another, and another.
And so it goes—one, and another, another, and another.
——
And what is my mood now?
Not before or after this moment, but now, just now in this momentary moment?
It's like this.
Above, then below.
On top of things, then buried beneath things.
Tired of it, and with no sign of rescue.
My eyes close under the weight of it all.
I need to do, to act, to choose, and to say—I need to speak it.
And I need to see a shape—a form of it—and construct it, and assemble it, and bring it about.
To be above, not buried below.
To be on top, not pressed down beneath the weight of it all.
But I'm swallowed up.
Consumed by it all.
Eaten by it all.
Nothing is in my control.
My will has deserted me.
Everything’s in flux—a flashing, scalding, hateful flux.
I'm burning and drowning at the same time.
It’s yellow, then black, then purple, then grey.
Then broken.
Then shattered.
Everything I see is in a dimly lit turmoil—misty, murky, miserable.
Everything needs shape, needs form.
But it’s hopeless.
Everything is formless, and eaten, and consumed.
——
I sit and watch what’s happening—even though it’s happening to me.
I'm a foreigner in an unknown land.
I have no language.
I can’t make contact with the world, or with myself.
It’s all waste.
It’s all heavy.
I’m completely buried.
Utterly lost and overcome.
——
And then a light.
Fleeting at first.
Dim at first.
Flashing on, then fading away.
But coming back,
And now staying long enough for me to focus on it.
It brightens.
It’s as if it knows me.
I stare, and hope, and it brightens more.
And I know—even though still for this moment I’m in the pressured darkness—that the light will draw me out and bring me once again into the brighter world of hope.
