Wednesday, June 20, 2012
I am sitting in a dark room. There is no light, just the glow from the laptop screen. My eyes shudder and try to close, and I force them open with terrible memories of the past. This is not normal human behavior. I force myself to watch friends die in my mind. I wonder at the last clutch of breath, and I can't fucking stop it. Sleep is a narcotized darkness. But it will come. And then morning. And then I will prick my brain again to make it bleed onto this little white box so there are words where before there was only potential.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Leaning on the cold shoulder. Car idling. Heart racing. The ground is hard. Pebbles, each one distinct. All meaningless upon impact. The impact pulverizes the body, turning the inside into a kind of soupy mess. Bones snap like twigs. The car still idles and will do so until it runs out of gas. It will be auctioned and purchased by a family happy that there are no blood stains. It was a good car. Life was not so good. But the impact solved that.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
John lay on his side on the edge of the bed and watched the texture of the wall go blurry. Outside, the sun was shining and birds were probably chirping and all that shit. But inside of his room, John was a monument to darkness. The room was dark. His mind was dark. The skin under his eyes was dark.
The walls weren’t doing much except giving John something to stare at. And there wasn’t much else in the apartment. A few milk crates to serve as tables, chairs, stools, etc. John had only been living in the apartment a few days. It was a mistake. He knew that. It was all a mistake.
John’s brain was about the size of a nerf football with the ends chewed off. It was a lump of magic that he did not understand. He had never given it much thought. But now it was all he could think about. This is because John was lost in the Guantanamo Bay of the mind. His thoughts were water-board nightmares. He did not know how to make it stop. He did not have the energy to make it stop. It wouldn’t stop.
John’s brain was asking questions. It had doubts. It wanted answers that John did not have. He did not know why he could not remember important things. He did not know why he had sabotaged his life. He wasn’t even sure if he was the one who had done it. So, he spent hours lying on his bed, turning the wall blurry, and wondering.