Thursday, June 5, 2014


Today she felt jubilant. Peals of laughter tinkled off her . Suddenly, inexplicably, surprisingly she felt immense joy. The joyousness bubbled in her, excited her. She felt alive, she felt sharp, alert, crystalline, almost as if the world, whose plumage had hitherto been folded in on itself had miraculously unfurled. She soared high, she delved deep, she partook of the luminiscences and plumbed the mysteries and all, all because she felt, suddenly, inexplicably, irrepressibly, irresistibly alive.

She swooped down to the breakfast room where her lover had set out cups of tea and toast. She kissed her lips, tasting the freshness of the morning air on her breath. Good morning, was her carillon of effusion on this morning and she meant it, sincerely meant it. Months of frigidity, being clammed up had put a stop to her physical life. 'Shush, just come with me, its a beautiful morning' she said and twirled and pirouetted with her lover in her arms. She kissed her again and again, draining to the dregs the essences of ambrosia her lips beheld. Today was a perfect day. Everything was going to be fine.

She stepped out and almost ,in her not inconsiderable excitement, swallowed the sun as she lifted up her face. For , today, of all day's she wanted to ingest, take in whole that great ball of fire whose incandescence send shafts of desire refracting throughout her body.

Her thoughts were a conglomeration of multitudes of other unlocatable thought processes. She thought feverishly of the novel that burgeoned in her. 'I have discovered a new form' she inwardly exulted. 'I have discovered something no one has before me'. And almost at once she wanted to put aside everything, rush to her desk and scribble and scribble. Even now, her consciousness unpeeled frenetically words whose inchoate jumblings created arabesques of patterned whorls of such transcendence that she felt becalmed in a realm of absolute happiness. She was suspended in ecstasy. But no, there were the groceries to pick, friends to meet, doctor to terminate all sessions with.

She thought fondly of her therapist, with retroactive valediction. She would tell her today that the moment had arrived where the skin of a troubled past was shed and the integument rippled, heaved, surged with nascent, latent, unlived, unlimited potentiality. 'Thank you for all you've done for me but now i want to manage on my own' she rehearsed internally.Month after month they both had unpicked, sifted, sorted. As each aspect of her life was analysed years of uncontainable sadness had , through accretions, congealed into, intractable melancholia. But prozac had buttressed her, things were clearer now. Life was good. Psychotherapy was normative. She had access to a deeper truth. There was a realm beyond the corporeal where her sadness would be rendered explicable, redeemable. Sadness was a metaphor for a sad world. And how sad it seemed , writers were when their vision was unactualized. And  a vision was plumbing a metaphysical. Metaphysical was the ineffable and made believers out of sceptics. Life was good. A new form had been discovered. She had broken through and now looked forward to an  apotheosis.

Outside the therapists office a police officer, a local gp and a community healthcare psychiatrist detained her. No no she protested smilingly, expostulating , nothing was wrong with her. She was out for a bit of a jaunt. Her loquaciousness rendered them fractious. Something was injected and she blanked out. On waking up she saw herself in a hospital bed with a white bedspread. And writ large, for her psychic blueprints, with indubitable clarity, entombed in her file was the  word - psychosis. 

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