dec 19

The sunrise offers less comfort than the silence. Northwestern silence. Cotton shoved into ears. Although I had a 20 hour sunday my mind rolls me out of bed. I am baffled by the inconvenience. It is so senseless. Last night I slept horribly without a soundtrack. Tonight I cannot slept in my hot bed in a cold room without rolling or turning. I use my fatigue to my advantage. It guides writing. Strange, partially coherent late night actions. Such as folder half of the laundry. Tuning the first three strings of the guitar to an open E flat chord. Partially coherent thoughts. Lists, to-do lists. To-don't lists. Checkmarks, underlines, cross outs, circles, arrows, engraving. Become a professional writer. Use this blog as catalyst. As pandora's box. Look at me all! Fill me in between your lines with blue ink. Connect the dots with swirling scars on your back and wrists. Shrapnel from a blown past. Reignite the old cow from her humble chambers of rest. Let her know she is loved. Fake it or believe in it. She will change the world if given incentive and motivation. It seems I need to learn how to solve problems. My life. The life of a friend. To be a savior. Scratching my bare chest. The one I've learned to be indifferent to. The one I can be proud of or ashamed of in equal proportion. The one I sculpt and manufacture, in attempt at health or beauty. The one shielding a beating heart. Pounding and reverberating in its cavity. Its home. But where is my heart? Where do I belong? My face gathers oil. My teeth stain yellow for neglect. Careless lovers exchange sex for food under an overpass. They carve a little hash mark into a hidden corner of the concrete infrastructure to indicate how many days they have survived after the supposed end of the world. They pause and rewind family video tapes in their heads. And weep as they lay eyes upon there very own childish features from murky recollection. Of course I remember, sister. I cannot suppress all unpleasant. I cannot call poison ivy a blessing. I cannot be as brave as I was when I was 14. When I broke the chassis of an old bike, on a sketchy steep, mountain bike suicide trail. When I would swing from giant chandeliers and light candles with magnifying glasses. If fires start behind my back, warn me if I am burning. If we were lovers in twisted clothes, eyes from head to toe, filling out the details, the contoured outlines of what may or may not be beneath. Reality often disappoints imagination. Oh. It's like this anyway. The dark rings form under my eyes. Sagging eyelids like an old timekeeper. The one who lives high in the belltower but has long lost any sense of sanity or rhythm. The bell rings discordant in odd hours throughout a series of weeks and then months before no one ever hears from him again and notre dame is burned to the ground. In a delicate explosive tactile maneuver. We will rendezvous in the state you left me in. Oregon. Melancholy. Washington. Nostalgic. Arizona. Confused. Pick your favorite color from this suspect lineup and let me know what you think when you see me in your bathroom mirror. It's a convincing ghost story to spread throughout history. That one about the little boy crying from one hillside to another. Floating above the fingertips of evergreens, he haunts generously. Giving fright to those who believe what they see. The ones who second guess will never be quite sure. The root of scientific inquiry is in this poorly distributed balance. My confusion has lead me to attempt a discovery of something that can be called by many as real, tangible, within reason, logical, and always always always true. My colleagues will be very impressed with the extent of my body of work. They will look up in awe at statues in my likeness. Not an ode to me by any means, rather a symbol of excellence, representing power in the face of utter oblivion. Indifference seeps in and destroys dreams of any statues to be constructed in my image. Streets named after daughters never born. Places where no one will ever be conceived. Sheer impossibilities. Obscurity. Blindness. I don't know when this insomnia will cause lasting damage. I don't know if it will. My mind running on empty like the instinctual death throes of any wild beast. It's wild, erratic. Hardly in touch with other departments of my mental faculty. I laugh in the face of a good night of sleep. I laugh at the prospect of a six pack. Glistening in southwestern sunlight. I grind my teeth, thinking about how I should stop popping my knuckles.