Why I blog about writing and issues of mental health
(for Ambronese)
J had schizophrenia. I was
bipolar. I told myself that I
was in love with translating the language of
desire. Wings of desire. I was a
“war” kind of anything. A war
horse found in the desert. The
origin of Paris was his throat.
He made careful movements
with his hands. Played a cloud study of water vapour gospel with
his guitar. I was
composed when it came to
printing it on my winter bodies and subconscious.
Now his mouth is alien to me.
Reserved for toasted cheese and
nightfall’s idiosyncratic gangs of ballet. I am still traumatised
by the hospital experience.
Stigma. The scholarship and foreign
tigers with dirty paws that I found there.