He spent his hours in the evening in front of the computer his hands and sometimes his arms shaking. Brief seizures plagued him until the Grand Mal’s came. He also experienced severe headaches which reckoned him, not because of the pain but in moments of absolute despair he wondered if it had something to do with the diagnosis of psychotic depression. He didn’t like to talk about it with too many people but perhaps talked about it too much to his wife who sometimes reminded him that he should be positive about his condition. He was doing better in this area but the struggle like the blank screen in front of him was paralyzing in his eyes. It was not an easy time of it.

He needed to work on the story he hoped to sell and make some money on but he usually found himself working on rather disturbing confessional poetry. Revealing bits of himself in each line that others weren’t aware of. He hears voices, and he sees thing that aren’t actually there. At one time he wrote down what the voices said but it became too disturbing. A word he has come to think of as a friend. He’s sees each poem as a living will or so he thinks. He might be wrong. He waits for the voices to tell him different. Sometimes it happened just that quick. Other times they waited until he rose from his chair and he stumbled as they howled.

He began to type a few words and instantly he knew he would delete them. He did this over and over until he knew it was worthless to try until the inspiration came. He almost never found his way into a piece without it but accidents happen. Fuck the old saying about lightning striking. That cliche was for those who had a life that wasn’t plagued with his problems. He picked up a copy of Georges Bataille’s Visions of Excess. The book was a kind of a security blanket to him. He poured over the text again and again and again. He identified with Bataille in more ways than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t sure about that statement. More than he wanted to admit, he could admit all he wanted if he kept it to himself. Every time he read about the beatings Bataille suffered from his father it made his body tighten. He knew this kind of thing well. At that moment he thought about the dream he had the night before

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