Wednesday, September 9, 2009

on your back with the stacks you load

That weight in my chest, curled like leaden vipers coiling around my lungs... it's back. That clenching in my shoulders and my neck, that dull ache in the back of my head.... they're all back. Something like a gravity too dense for this planet that covers my skin making it hard to move, hard to think, hard to breathe. Too much to bear, but not enough for it to overflow. It sits, like stagnant water, heavy and thick. This weight.

...
my mystic writing pad drafts the deeds before i speak them. the director yells cut, but i like the take. the mirror in my trailer is missing a bulb. the shadow makes my eyes look dark and intent. i'd love that man if he weren't so miserable, so afraid. no amount of reassurances could ever soothe him. my mystic writing pad gave those lines to the mirror, spoken out the side of its missing bulb.

...
There is a moment when everything seems incredibly clear and laid out before you. From this moment of clarity, you turn and flee. If I had a bottle, I'd empty it. If I had a cave, I'll contort my body into its crevices. If I had another chance... Wouldn't I flee?

...
i don't know what i'm doing. to try to think it makes me crazy. too many forks in the train line and my mind can't keep up. i race around like a lunatic. like a frantic man in a burning house who can't decide what he needs to take with him. his hands are empty when they find his remains.

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