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Winter Dialogue with self profound

by M. Lee Randles
Feb 12, any year

winter dialogue with self, low light frolic
winter dialogue with self profound, Low Light Frolic

Winters are not my best time of year, even I can recognize that. My spirit
slips into a slot, a niched longing for something that exists some time
in the next second. Like a pregnant woman, I live in a state of anticipation,
ennui; the brief hours of daylight, cold, wet, dull drizzle gives way to the
season's dominant fare, the cold wet dark drizzle of night.

The time of waking and sleeping become confused, unimportant,
although waking is preferred for the sense of purpose it seems to provide;
with lingering hours and hours of undirected concentration anchored to
nothing but metering of the earth's rotation – a task that must be done.
Sleep becomes an irritant and something to be avoided; sleep leaves one
with a feeling of having missed something, perhaps an important mood shift
may have occurred without my knowdlege.

Clinical Depression moves in like the ultimate lover. I surrender to her
charms, the moment sustained, demanding her most exotic positions
with emphasis on foreplay; the act of penetration becomes moot and
foolish, for what would I do after that crescendo. Unlike the orgasm,
the pit of profound depression can be easily sustained, toyed with,
one can't lose interest like other pursuits; it becomes the sustainable
erection of the languid

With some level of expertise in this state of mind (Clinical Depression)
I have some problem with a workable resolution to this intoxicant.
Like any observation of the internal, seen from the inside, the subjectivity
becomes a part of the appeal; condensing reality to boundaries no wider
than the distance my body radiates heat in a cold room; permission for
one to explore speechless dialogues with self stuffed within self.

Now I am the veteran of Forty-five such perilous winters, sucking
the proverbial shotgun muzzle with one shoe off and my big
toe daintily nested within the trigger housing, sitting on the edge of an
unkempt bed, and my left hand nervously flipping the safety on -- off, like
some fiddle with the radio dial or chew their nails, I am left with limp
exhaustion by spring. I wheedle time to some unknowable end, anticipating
the next unapproachable second. I have found that if one must be
depressed, the wise, benefactor--malefactor, demands the experience to be
profound. For without profound depression one's choreograph loses its need
for attentiveness and deference to ritual. While resting one's leg and
flippant flipping the safety one could become inattentive; the result leaves
nothing -- nothing to write about, not even martyrdom.



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