Weekend Resurrection
I feel smashed and dead; today I am a zombie. This weekend was bad, it was down and hard and washed out. This weekend was cold wet mud, the kind you don't see and then once you've stepped in it you're stuck, pulling you foot from the whirling suckage of brown ick. After you have your foot out it's wet ~ soaked through ~ and you kick and rub against the cement, but
that residue of ick just stays, like a force field.
This weekend left a residue of ick, in my mind and over my body ~ good mood beware, there is a defining force field of nasty around me. I can't say the right things; I don't know them. I can't do the right things; I am incapable of them. I feel like the crumpled dead butterfly I stepped over coming into work. It always is this way after weeks or months, delay time varies on what I'm doing and if I continue to do it, of not sleeping. It's not altogether a void of sleep, everyone needs sleep ~ I sleep, but not much. I can always feel the jetlag coming; the dreams loose their edge, their stories, and their absolute concreteness. They become more and more impersonal, like a whore laid back pretending with one client while thinking absently of the next ~
they start to mean nothing. The images that are lush and wet with life, like the dark life in deep jungle, become white washed with florescent lights in which nothing is beautiful. Instead of feeling her breath on the side of my face and hearing her soft voice like waves I watch from across the dream, knowing I should feel it and it should feel great ~ instead searching for that constant buzzing noise that fills each beautiful image and I cannot stop hearing. It's the buzz of a power source almost tapped out. It's the buzz of a high that peaked long time back, of my brain trying to break apart dream from reality. Like a child
being torn from her mother the dream me cries, like a teenager with no way to make anyone understand the physical me sulks. My dreams are my answer to everything; they are my love and life source. When I start to lose them this way I get anxious and terribly sad, I start to hunt sleep with a vengeance that makes it impossible to drift off not matter how tired I am. Finally ending in one huge, unavoidable crash; the sadness and weakness and insanity and pain, the laughter and dancing and poetry and hysterics ~ all burning in the silent scream of a child who collapsed and found herself stuck in a silent, darkened coma
while those other things worked on themselves.
Awakened after hours, the world has continued without me. I missed her call, I hate that I missed it. I want her voice and her thoughts. I want to be awake with her losing time and sleep, but I want my dreams of her as well. I want those nights of passion that I give to her tucked inside of folded paper and decorated envelopes, I want the hopes those dreams give me ~ and I want the way they fill my with creative power for days and days on end. I don't call her back, I don't wait for sleep to steal me, and I lay myself down and start a dream.
Hello, how I've missed you.
"Where have you been?" Her dream beauty ails in comparison to her life beauty; her eyes are never as perfectly green.
Trying so hard to get back to this place, my darling ~ trying so hard.
"I'm glad you made it." Her lips are liquid heat on mine. So am I!
This weekend was bad, as every once in a while they must be, to get myself back to this place where sleep is only for her and for dreams to wrap like gifts for her.
At lunch I sit and smoke cigarettes one after another, inspecting my destroyed butterfly visitor. The color of his wings are still visible, still there and vibrant. His wings look like they would have been beautiful had they never met whatever fate caused him
to permanently land right here. My fingers feel like static, they want to write a letter, my heart feels full of rhythm ~ I have a poem inside of me. My head aches and I know I will sleep again tonight but by tomorrow I will be awake and aware and alive again.
I will keep her on the phone and all over the walls of my dreams.
that residue of ick just stays, like a force field.
This weekend left a residue of ick, in my mind and over my body ~ good mood beware, there is a defining force field of nasty around me. I can't say the right things; I don't know them. I can't do the right things; I am incapable of them. I feel like the crumpled dead butterfly I stepped over coming into work. It always is this way after weeks or months, delay time varies on what I'm doing and if I continue to do it, of not sleeping. It's not altogether a void of sleep, everyone needs sleep ~ I sleep, but not much. I can always feel the jetlag coming; the dreams loose their edge, their stories, and their absolute concreteness. They become more and more impersonal, like a whore laid back pretending with one client while thinking absently of the next ~
they start to mean nothing. The images that are lush and wet with life, like the dark life in deep jungle, become white washed with florescent lights in which nothing is beautiful. Instead of feeling her breath on the side of my face and hearing her soft voice like waves I watch from across the dream, knowing I should feel it and it should feel great ~ instead searching for that constant buzzing noise that fills each beautiful image and I cannot stop hearing. It's the buzz of a power source almost tapped out. It's the buzz of a high that peaked long time back, of my brain trying to break apart dream from reality. Like a child
being torn from her mother the dream me cries, like a teenager with no way to make anyone understand the physical me sulks. My dreams are my answer to everything; they are my love and life source. When I start to lose them this way I get anxious and terribly sad, I start to hunt sleep with a vengeance that makes it impossible to drift off not matter how tired I am. Finally ending in one huge, unavoidable crash; the sadness and weakness and insanity and pain, the laughter and dancing and poetry and hysterics ~ all burning in the silent scream of a child who collapsed and found herself stuck in a silent, darkened coma
while those other things worked on themselves.
Awakened after hours, the world has continued without me. I missed her call, I hate that I missed it. I want her voice and her thoughts. I want to be awake with her losing time and sleep, but I want my dreams of her as well. I want those nights of passion that I give to her tucked inside of folded paper and decorated envelopes, I want the hopes those dreams give me ~ and I want the way they fill my with creative power for days and days on end. I don't call her back, I don't wait for sleep to steal me, and I lay myself down and start a dream.
Hello, how I've missed you.
"Where have you been?" Her dream beauty ails in comparison to her life beauty; her eyes are never as perfectly green.
Trying so hard to get back to this place, my darling ~ trying so hard.
"I'm glad you made it." Her lips are liquid heat on mine. So am I!
This weekend was bad, as every once in a while they must be, to get myself back to this place where sleep is only for her and for dreams to wrap like gifts for her.
At lunch I sit and smoke cigarettes one after another, inspecting my destroyed butterfly visitor. The color of his wings are still visible, still there and vibrant. His wings look like they would have been beautiful had they never met whatever fate caused him
to permanently land right here. My fingers feel like static, they want to write a letter, my heart feels full of rhythm ~ I have a poem inside of me. My head aches and I know I will sleep again tonight but by tomorrow I will be awake and aware and alive again.
I will keep her on the phone and all over the walls of my dreams.
1 Comments:
i know i wasn't supposed to read but i had to. and you are brilliant and magical once again so now i can never stop. i will be your number one fan (for now, but i'm sure it will change soon enough since you are worthy of at least a handful of stalkers.)
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