Frozen Sun - 2-6-09

The numbness has been shivering lately. I’ve been too stimulated, too close to feeling mildly good about a few things. I enjoy my writing class too much, the discussions too lively. I feel the weight of anticipation settle in me when I think of writing. I feel annoyed too easily at various things. I have to get back to feeling dead. I’ve had a good couple of weeks where I have remained untouched by the slavering horde I am assigned to, but the last two days I’ve been closer to speaking sharply, showing my annoyance. I have to remember, have to remember, they are spies. That anything I say may be twisted out of context and out of my hands. They are not to be trusted. I have to remember this. I have to stay dead. I have to lock myself up tight. I will remain depressed if I have to, if the numbness isn’t binding enough. I cannot afford to feel good. Any good feeling immediately gives way to the inevitable despair at being trapped in my situation. I have to freeze my hatred of them, my all-consuming, violent hatred of them. I have to lay down my sudden visions of taking them by the throat and throwing them against the wall. I have to simply remember that this is the way it is. There is no way to change it. No matter what I do, they will act like this. And I am trapped. And nothing will ever change. I just have to recite that to myself. I just have to remember this. Remember this. Remember this. I will have this class next year or another one that is worse. I can’t imagine the Transfer Fair will bring any relief, or that I will be able to transition out of the classroom so I can work with adults. It is a ridiculous pipe dream to think I can escape by becoming a full-time novelist, even though my motivation has exploded and I am writing all the time, even in class when I am supposed to be teaching but can’t stand the sight of them. I am buried under small, frenetic limbs and tinny voices. I hate them. I hate them all. I deeply hate and loathe them. I wish them all to be hurt somehow. I would let all of them stand in front of a bus and feel only dark satisfaction. This is what I have come to. This is what is trapped in the classroom with them. All of these innocent, helplessly aggravating children are locked in with Grendel. It is horribly wrong for me to be here. God is wrong. He does not know what he is doing. Yes, the clay is clamoring to the potter. I am dimly resigned to the so-called rebellion. It is wrong. How can it be otherwise when I am driven so close to the edge? Does he want me to snap and make a rash decision that will ruin my life? Does he want me to be compelled to harm myself? Surely it won’t come to that. Surely I can preserve the death in my soul. Surely Lazarus can resist the wake-up call and remain shrouded in shadows and silence. I am dead. I am dead. I am dead. I feel nothing, not even despair, not even hopelessness. There is no release, there must be none. This numbness must swell within me until my skin splits. I will remain untouchable. No one will ever touch me. No one will touch me or they will burn up, they will combust from being so close to my frozen sun. I will remain encircled by thorns so no one can get to me. No one will reach me. I am gone.