Not listening to Prozac (or Muzac or Balzac)

Morpheus, where is he at this late hour?
As I rid myself of boxes and bags of accumulated stuff, trying in vain to lighten my load.
Yet even as I do so, and even as the flesh falls away from my bone as it has for the last month,
I still feel as if I am treading water, the air surrounding me like that at high altitude.
Distantly, small pops of fireworks are heard. A siren half heartedly warns. A dog howls.
How long did I stand and water the same patch of grass today before realizing my feet felt wet?
How long did it take for me to realize I did not want to be where I was? oh yes, I knew, but not how much.
A steady plunk, plunk in my chest tells me all the employees of this thing called my body have come to work today. I am relieved there is no holiday tomorrow, no “occasion”. I have not been tempted to go ask for the green pills, which will wash all this away, to become the person formerly known as this person now. No, I remember living in the third person, and how smug I was in my bulletproof prozac state- I could still think, just not feel. Years like that.

What has driven me to lie supine, when all my life I have lain prone?
To hang my fearlessness out on the line to dry?
And at this late date? Surely I have played it safe for so long-
And in this state, a place I am sure I have never truly known,
and no brochure or guide prepared me for this ride.
My explanations and definitions do not stem the tide.

At the end of my tether, I champ at the bit-

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