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[ahmeduniverse-blog2]

Salma Othmeny’s paper

In days like this , i don't feel at odds with the tedium, or with the entire world burning outside . They say i am supposed to be sane. Sober. Fully dressed. Untroubled. Organized. In the fold. With a commun case. I am supposed to say important things. To be persistent every now and then. Feet on ground. And negociate and partake and compromise and behave . And walk in swarm after swarm after swarm . Co-exist. Co-resist. Co-operate. Co-depend. In this section of the day after i swallow my little tablets , i am not who i am supposed to be . After my brain cells receive their favorite notification, i feel my lighted head in the clouds , and i feel safe as i float in the cube . I feel no bone and no flesh . All the sufferance shutdown and all the stars of all the possible universes appear . I examine my fingers with delibrate care . The hydrogen , the carbon , the disaster within. Membranes. Skin. Tragedy . When these hands shake , it is involuntary and rhythmic . The trembling occurs . And when the trembling occurs i feel quite myself. Refuelled and caffeinated and fresh to death . It must be ironic ; the world diseases you , and then creates a pill to medicate you . Hence emerges the binary hook on anomaly and cure . Hence comes diction out of addiction. In days like this, when the semisynthetic relievers twist with my hemoglobin , a whole wood grows within me. I feel intact like earth before corruption. And i feel like i'm made of soil and wind and low rumbles of thunder. The synthetic is unescapable . The greed to shut the bodily suffering is irresistible. I am supposed to stick to prescriptions, they say. Stand in a long line. Afford a rehabilitation of quality. I am supposed to heal myself for legitimate purposes . Legal class A . Less heroin. Less fantazia . I am supposed to keep concentration . Erase the paraphernalia evidences . Don't buy needles . No grooming. Buy a hygiene . A tough route . Where i , and each of us , fight alone . In and out of medical misuses . In and out of crisis peaks . But in days like this , i switch off my mind . I don't fear disorientation . The oipoid becomes a good teleporter . The irritability decreases, the angry outbursts , the system as a whole . As if i chose today to hang myself down to earth from all the waiting . The unreadiness is diminished. The acute pain inside takes pause. So i forget about who i am supposed to be. I forget about constraints. About unemployment and income . About nationality. About dishonesty to myself. About fatigue. whereabouts. Opression. Depression. Agression. And about homemade homesickness. They all go. I forget. Splash . In days like this , i write in feelings about moments scientifically and technically unfelt . As if under a chemical lobotomy . In a monstrous state of palsy , where a friendly drug gives one some wonderful credible moments , of stability and solemn . I trade unhealthiness for brief levitation, which wrecks my havocs wich makes me lame. There are no forces that can cause iron to float in air. And no forces that can neutralize one from gravity and dirt and painful physicality . There is no good drugs. And no good treatments. There's no permanent recovery. There is no single being , of hydrogen and carbon, sane on this earth . The truth is that , in days like this, i may not be sure of who i'm supposed to be.