"this morning in my attic high, the demon came to me"

 i have this distinct feeling that i am losing something but i dont know what it is. it is that strange weight on the heart that shifts from room to room to room pacing the floors, some burden that still questions its worth. the part of time that wonders how to tell the brain how it feels. and the entire body is affected by the unknown burden in the heart. the whole body echoes those mild ramblings of the burden and feels it in the shift between lightness and something dire, something dragged to the bottom of the sea.

i wish i, too, had a well to sit in the bottom of. just to think. just so my brain could hear those echoes too and not be so distracted by the life of the matter in a day to day way. but this feeling of loss is so entirely distinct today, and last night i could feel it begin to wander though my form, stretching inside my lungs knocking around my stomach. some black feeling. some fog.

there are absolutes i know i will lose soon. parts that i have been preparing to lose for years and years, things my head and heart have already consulted one another on, battle arms up, painted signs with cursive notes about the end of specific parts. my brain knows the specifics of my grandmother. of isolation. it knows the specifics of past parts, so well, that my brain can convince my heart that certain moments never existed. that specific points in time were entirely imagined. a few days ago, i tried to explain this to my soon-to-be sister-in-law, how my brain knows so well what my heart cannot handle, that it purposefully allows no evidence of certain points in time, except for those cursive journals. those are the hearts, and a constant reference. a constant reference between each to each.

but this unknown i dont know what to do with. i know it sounds strange, these feelings i get, and its not that i perpetually instigate my own doom, or focus entirely on the morbidity of living (socially, and in a day to day way, i make it a point to live against the doom and gloom of it all) but this is something pounding around my heart that i can not explain away yet, but i know its coming. i feel something acting against me.

yesterday i went to the dali museum and, since they have taken away the nude women as skulls and what not (which i miss, that black room in the back is a bore), i wandered to the Portrait of My Dead Brother (1963) which is the painting i like the most aside from the small Dionysus paintings. there is something so terrible about the overall context of beauty, and this isnt about surrealism, but the actuality of the grotesque made beautiful. baudelaire did it. plath did it. even just the inversions of the grotesque, but there is something about that portrait that kills me. everytime i go to the dali museum, i always post in front of it for ages, often with a journal, often trying to know what it is exactly that rips my heart around. i cant name it. even the history of dali living against the memory of his brother, even that isnt it.

i am obsessed with absolutes. with inversions. how language can spiral into some unbearable, pounding momentum, and then entirely collapse on itself. how it seems that whenever anything reaches its moment of reality it is destroyed. how life in focus, how something that seems so easy is so entirely unattainable, how distance distracts everything, how time shifts the imagination and the basic rule of variables.

this is a foreboding feeling. it is not distracting it is something that shifts along with me, something that my brain is grappling with while i am sewing in my old rooms making new clothes i could never afford and imagining the rooms i will wear them in. i imagine grand rooms with oak banisters and velvet wallpaper designs and lush green rugs and golden goblets and everything candles and antique chandeliers and people dancing in tom ford tuxs and the girls with crimson lips and people dancing to an old soul band and everything in shadow and beauty. i think about the inevitability of these rooms. that they must have existed at some point. at some space in time, with no photos of proof.