I bury and harbour infinitely more of me than the little details floating in perceptions-stolen in conversations. But the night is privy to all I feel, and to my regrets that seem to burgeon in significance by the day, like a wound beginning to fester. I burn and evade everything, there is no relief. Ancient promises and impressions still fresh on my mind, still torment. Time does not offer consolation it seems, only further obscured retribution, only dreams in which I am haunted, my most intimate thoughts hunted (and to think I could evade). And yet, I find time crawling painfully between dreams, hours get stuck for years in daylight purgatory, waiting for that respite on the cusp of torment, of which only fragments remain. There is no relief.
I am two conditions: so far away and alien everything feels…like air…taut and desolate air, waiting for something. Or, everything is so unbearably intense, time collapses into itself-memories, fresh vacillations, the void of tomorrow, and the pain-like a knife in the heart.
Sleep does not rejuvenate, I want to leave some things behind, but destiny can’t be relinquished in sleep. I travel through the wind with eyes closed, but to no avail, I can never wander farther than the cigarette fumes, car exhaust and mud scent amalgamation. This city drives me mad, but it is still a refuge from the distant places that drove me madder. I can still afford some prespective. I never did see myself living in one place for so long. I still think about coastal living, or near the desert by a stream, nights with stars and clarity, no problems.
I used to dream, now a silent black envelopes my consciousness.
Can you miss something you can’t remember feeling?
What am I really thinking at the peak of night? I speak but I don’t really speak, it’s too exhausting and words tend to complicate what eyes easily reveal. I long for some peace and quiet from the vicious cacophonous machine of society.
Sometimes Monday begins on some Saturday morning. There is little movement in the frost, still creeping, and the birds culminate in their violent reprise in the pale cold. The radio drones on with comments on some opinion piece about another opinion, and I don’t care.
Spring is here but I feel it is still on its way.
On such Saturdays, I drive unthinkingly for about 30 minutes in a torpid autopilot kind of way, and parallel park. I wonder what its like driving for ages until all familiarity fades into like a dreamscape, outlandish, no expectations, the weather morphs, and perhaps reality too. Is it still even possible for people to get lost? There are other Saturdays too: Mid-week ones, Friday ones, and Saturday Saturdays with quiet morning breakfasts and fragrant tea-strictly no talk of news or work.
Lately I’m tired, a new kind of tired. Everything is transient but feels monumental. And what is with this general turbulence we all find ourselves suffering? I feel there is an enroaching everpresent vibe, lingering in the mechanisms of all things unfolding, something painful and dulling latches onto every mood.
Only imitations are offered in the artifical warmth of speech. The self reduced to adjectives semblances compressed and formulated. But when words evade, What do you call the commotion stirring within? And those hopeless things on the fringes of sanity, lurking in the dark.
When the ceiling seems to go on forever, and the curtains become cold wind, how do you explain?