[this page left intentionally blank] (eyelines) wrote,
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”On the dangers of defining yourself by the person you love”


[the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills. ]

michaela knizkova[“I construct nothing durable”, she said. I have learned to do without this human warmth, to accept these floating icebergs, these remote non-human species (…) To live in fantasy without human closeness. THE DIARY OF ANAÏS NIN, VOLUME TWO 1934-1939] and i wonder, is it possible for me to take another day, the vocalization of the mind the intonation of the heart the architecture of MY BODY professing its mortality loss of life : it’s all too much to bear. it's the waking up to the impression or knowledge of nausea, awareness, that distressing sentience knowing there’s not even a child rummaging underneath your skin and flesh inducing emesis but it’s your own fabric and execution, an upset directed to a new day and of course there’s sickness everywhere. i’m so bareskinned i spring awake with dreams like a visceral bleeding from behind my eyes, obscuring reality with the physical notion of hindered breathing and even the daylight as it progresses through the venetian blinds feels ashen already experienced. paranoia too strikes me daily, watchful slow moving eyes grown functional into the walls opening&closing like a shutter controlling time, light regulating measures of movement – Mine. and the screaming wounds bleed fresh making every space quiver elastic of accusation, for none of this is real : it's mental synthesis, only long waxen surfaces part of a cerebral texture . . . . yes, very still, taking time adjusting to the complete night flooding everywhere, and especially here, ghosts rising upwards, towards a faltering subconsciousness, quickly ripples the surface of premonition, halfway comprehension, only a bitter sweet awakening - but for no one. stop motion setback of a twenty four hour resistance, it has become a deficiency now, virtually, and ignominy in my eyes as they lay unrecognised lashed and coiled limpid inside their sockets, all facts disappearing finally out of focus, but hone in the inseparable agony of confinement es läßt mich emotionslos. same time, different places, different times, same places and some with more meaning and forceful impact. in regards to how things happen or turn out, all we can do is accept : nervously and overlapping dialogues, we should leave it at that.

When we have strong emotional experiences, the stress hormones epinephrine (adrenaline) and cortisol are released in our brains and appear to act as a stimuli for keeping memories alive. (…) Emotional memories also appear to be processed and stored differently in the brain from more pedestrian memories, which may explain the phenomenon of traumatic flashbacks.

A neurobiolgical study conducted in 1996 on people who experienced flashbacks concluded that these memories are ‘organized on a perceptual and affective level with limited semantic representation and tend to intrude as emotional or sensory fragments related to the original event, with stability over time’.

This is an elaborate way of saying that what returns in a flashback is remembered not through language but through emotion and sensation. After the accident, I had flashbacks four nights in a row. Each time I was asleep, and each time I woke sitting up in the bed, terrified, my heart racing, after reliving the moment of the crash: the speeding van, the deafening noise of glass and mental exploding around me. For four nights in a row, I relived the shock of that van as it slammed into the passenger side of the car, where I was sitting. These were not like any memories I have ever had. I had not sought them, and they had not been triggered by some external stimulus - a smell or taste or sight or sound. They just came, and when they came, they were not in the past but in the present. The thing that had happened, happened again.

Trauma memory has no narration. Stories always take place in time. They have a sequence and they are always behind us.

— Siri Hustvedt, The shaking woman or the history of my nerves.
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