August 3, 2012

• Stream of consciousness from the depths of sleep deprivation

  I heard something fall on the air conditioning unit, and my first instinct was to grab the machete. No intruder is getting in my window with his spleen intact. The skin inside my ear is splitting again, and all I can do is to keep touching it with unclean hands. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. I close my eyes, and let the tinkling sound of bells fall as I reach for a cup of freeze dried instant coffee. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. I could unlock this door right now, and walk straight into the bright light of the walkway, but there’s an unknown that keeps me from wrenching open what I do not know I do not know. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. I dreamed again that I was on a stage, but my elusive friend was there also, and I was attempting to keep the screws from sticking out of the wood, and we kept leaping from train car to train car. Why did he disappear at the time that I needed him most, and why do I feel the need to bury that part of my life into the narrative of a girl who compulsively spraypaints blank walls? And, why, oh why, oh why does it feel as though the next time he resurfaces, we’ll be on opposite sides of some war? Why do I worry so much about war, and why do I still dream about the way he used to touch my hair? Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. The wax is dripping in every flicker of the panther-barricaded sunrise. All I need is one more sleeve of cigarette, and a breath of something gentle. Beer bottlecaps. Beer bottlecaps. Ting. Ping. Ping. Gong….

  • 9:37 am
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