Here am I
and there is my body
dancing on glass

In accident time where there are no accidents

You have no choice
the choice comes after

They will love me for that which destroys me
the sword in my dreams
the dust of my thoughts
the sickness that breeds in the folds of my mind

Every compliment takes a piece of my soul

...

It is myself I have never met, whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind


Please open the curtains


- 4.48 Psychosis, a play by Sarah Kane

Caught this play about a woman's depression back in London. The only reason why this play stuck in my mind was that the playwright killed herself shortly after writing this play. Suddenly words become more than they are. A potential cliche made horrific and real by the events framing the words. It is a pity that her works had not fully exocised the demons within her. I am one step closer in trying to find out what it is that pained her about living, within her words, but yet nowhere near enough to fully comprehen it.