Not limited to the outside world, but also the inner. Places that have corners in which my dreams creep, crying at me with passionless desire to slither back to that from which they came. The ultimate womb, my brain.
And to this, another sip of wine, and a puff on a newly discovered electronic cigarette, obtained for half price through promises of part time shop keeping and service. I flip through different tabs on the internet; email, empty; second email, empty; friend's website, empty; facebook, empty. Mirror, empty. Mind, empty. Patience, empty. Heart, bleeding. The day it stops is the day I enter the embrace of death.
Welcome to the Amber show, January 31st, 2010.
I've been fighting with sleep for a week now. Worse than that are the arguments I instigate with the outside world; the people that pay me to touch their bodies, the people that do not see me attempting to cross the road where society has designated me to do so. Silent screaming matches at nature for daring to suggest I lay with her, be consumed by her breath like I once did daily as a child. And to this, another sip of wine.
Putting my mug down I hear laughter coming from another room. The house I live in is beyond reasonable living conditions, in Hawaii, on the water, numerous personal amenities, even my own piano to play. The very black and white toothed brown monster I gave away a year ago, never expecting to again live so close to it's sighing mouth and moaning joints. Now a days I wake to the silence of her expecting eyes on my fingers as I instead mash a silencing command on my phone alarm. Chortling delight again fills the space I am trying to squeeze apart, intending to bury this part of myself amongst the kale and decomposing pug in the corner of the massive back yard. Laughter that is not echoing from a room in this home, but a room of my own, one built and frequented in my dreams, put on pause only to wake and go throughout the day as if I was going back to a place of rest instead of this alter-life some deranged part of myself leads in the absence of sunlight.
These giggles are of the self that croons to me, "honey child, doncha know by now this ain' nothin'. Quit pokin' at da sky n tryin' da make it fall on yo head." She speaks without breaking her gaze from the embers she stirrs, stick tracing the spell of time in whimpering ashes.
I've been gone for some time now. I think it's a bit overdue that I return to writing letters to myself instead of inivisibilly spying on people through the social networking genius that is Facebook.
Fuck em all.
