Like a quaint cataleptic mental spin, how the great diminution of sensibility bothers me now, painting a picture dense of disorientation as soon as my eyes inherit the screen. I feel woozy by the frenzied writer embroidery whenever he decides to enter his hallmarked scene, and this is one of those days, hung on whether to seclude myself from its pressures, or to alternatively engage it head-on.
I feel the ironic cold feet as soon as deliberations begin in my mind, but since this is the last day of the month, and that be it, the last chance to stab sentiment through with marlin, the writer takes occasion to pass comment, and to rattle in his device.
I feel pressed today by some awful biorhythm cycles, but as the dramas of each separate person in this house calibrate and adjust, so too the writer is poised to retrace the vast chronology of this past week. I could cast an even greater imposition on my mind by stressing important priorities or factors that sway, but chronology is much simpler.
Like An Austere Sponge At The Bank
Anyway, as far as emphasis is concerned, Friday the twenty-eighth and first day of this working week is where the writer begins to share. He remembers little of it but he does remember visiting town to run a host of errands there.
Furthered with two-hundred dollars to my credit card cause, the agreement with my parents allowed me to visit the bank, for the first time in a while, to deposit a further relief to break the problematic threshold. I stood in line with a look of psychological assessment about me, standing like an austere sponge to see what people around me would do.
A lady to the left of our line actively peered over my shoulder to monitor her errant kid while everyone else would’ve scored top marks in their theatrical performances as trees. I found it observantly amusing, until a familiar face behind the glass window startled me. I felt that provoked sense of paranoia as this blonde that once leapt into my exclusive world (and since subsided on account of my withdrawal) was now pointing me out as fodder to one of her friends.
“There is that guy,” I could sense her speech, unsure of what opinion my insecure association once had imparted.
Regardless, as minimal as her impact was in respect to the mood of the day, following that procurement of further financial security, I made my way down the main street, which was about when I fleetly noticed a familiar face.
A Silent Recognition Of Jewell
My joie de vivre really does have a spell on me. I have learnt to let go since my sent letter was meant to detach me from unrealistic expectations.
As Jewell sat on a bench solitarily eating with a vacant face withdrawn, it was easy of me in my upbeat nature to pass the moment by.
I could have certainly been humiliated to offer myself up with a greeting, or my joie de vivre could have equally been as embarrassed to be alone and interrupted while she ate. I was certainly in a happy-go-lucky mood to speak in measured words, but instead, chose to bend down with my hand waving.
I found it cute as my joie de vivre passed it off without a flinch of her concentrated eyes, and then even more endearing as inimitably she blinked her eyes, bowed her brows in question and then pivoted her chin up. Call it a curious reaction to my actions never vocalizing, but it put a smile on my face. I perhaps may have stopped if she noticed me but I never died wondering on my persistence down the road.
The moment only lasted a few seconds but she may have clicked towards the end. I could have shared so much, but it was probably best left unspoken, precious, as our memories are remembered.
The Personification Of Purpose
I had this sense of accomplishment on my way to the gym too, as if seeing my joie de vivre made it all worthwhile. I felt a sense of perspective to the causes in my life. Suddenly, she was the picture of purpose behind why I strove to all these things. A sense of my joie de vivre was the justification at the end of the line.
“I work out because I want to be able to have this one day,” I thought.
“I pay my bills because a sense of her is my end result.”
My joie de vivre personifies the purities, and the rest depressed my chances to obtain her.
I never really had a reason to strive for much in these past few years. I used to think cases like hers represented the future, but hopeless mistakes of mine ruined that. My joie de vive was the epitome of dreams, but she too was cast down one day, allowed to leave these burning passions in me behind. So when the lover was lost, so too was inner sanctity.
Seeing Jewell Serves As Inspiration
Anyway, seeing my joie de vivre flashed a bulb in my head to beckon a sense of perspective back. Now she is again the justifying image to strive for when the old nemeses conspire. I aspire to meet my contentment of personal standing in gains like fitness and social security. I measure myself against her to see there is still a bit to go.
“I only hope the final extravagance will come,” a voice kept spinning in my head, wondering when the last exorbitant amount of money would be wasted and when my sensibilities would see out this wasteful situation.
I hope my joie de vivre noticed me however. I wouldn’t hold my breath but some day one of likeness by my confident behavior will be proffered. One day the affect she had on me in seconds will frequent me day by day, and that truly will be the ultimate justification, for me to fall back into life, and for life to take me back in.
Weighing Up The Few Positives
The rest of the situation since then was dense but brief. Exercise has been nice to me lately with visits to the gym thrice per week, but my weight seems to have plateaued at 87 kilos for now.
A cheque came through the mail yesterday as well to endear this worthwhile process on the financial mend. It was only a small dose of dividend from my outdated HIH Insurance shares, but it helped adrenalize the cause at the bank today.
A bit of tone comes to my body this week too, as the beef strips or fish dinners serve nice lean meals.
Spending One Hour With My Psychiatrist
I also visited a booked psychiatrist on the twenty-eighth immediately after my workout, on a protracted day that saw me wake up earlier than usual. The diagnosis my psychiatrist gave was not as forgiving however. I had a heated debate with many argued points, but in the end, he put my condition down to a psychosis.
“In my opinion you have a mild case of schizophrenia,” he said, as he gave me a “sane” guide to psychosis and some pills called Zyprexa to replace the antidepressants Tofranil already harbored at home.
I was frustrated because he was quick to make a judgment. So I stormed out to visit my general practitioner when our session was over, but he too agreed.
Replacing My Antidepressant Medication
After reading the guide to psychoses however, some of it started to make sense. I had a totally media-depicted orientation of schizophrenia or psychoses before reading. So, becoming enlightened by the book, the anti-psychotic tablets Zyprexa prescribed to me have been taken into the usual routine.
I might elaborate more one day, but basically, the negative symptoms of schizophrenia affect me the most, with perhaps a cross section of symptoms also from a bipolar disorder.
This book might even be of interest to the machine. But any sort of mental condition casts a stigma around the affected people, so it might be a while before people can stand with me, and me, on my own two feet.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
