WE will begin with what I know...
These days it takes two weeks of straight rain in order to force and recognize my insanity. With the rate that the drops fall I can drown in my ancestors shoes in less than 6 minutes flat. My predecessors will soon have gills. I know that when strangers look at me with eyes that assume the slightest idea of what I am, it happens again... The deer in headlights. This is not the only recurring theme in the screenplay I cannot escape. It is the analepsis, prolepsis, and ellipses rolled into a clusterfuck so solid I piss blood. I am also having them again. The dreams. The dreams that start as such and become nightmares when the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention like an alarm clock telling me I am alive again. The dreams consist of a far away destination. So be it somewhere tropical, with beautiful women that are not from this life. (This is what I figure might be labeled beautiful). The setting is vaguely near the ocean, near something that seems uncomfortably familiar, naked and alien.
They alienate me.
Worst of all, I now know why I have them. It is a subconscious regurgitation of my unfulfilled desire to leave and my presently indiscrete condemnation. We will discuss that later. The dreams are how my portals to reality deal with the mundane and monotonous. It is a purging of the parasite that eats me from inside my deteriorating organs. The bug that at some undetermined moment crawled under my skin and frequently forces me to remember it exists when I get that plasticky feeling.
The plastic.
Inescapable.
This planet feels like a plastic bag zip-tied over my head. I cannot escape the smell of plasic, ceaselessly smothering me; and I KNOW my grains of sand are scarce. I count my breathes. This is why I smoke: I can actually see my own breathes escaping and am able to count them easier. Each time I see life leaving me in smoke clouds, I mutter under my breathe,
"It hasn't happened yet. Chalk one up the bolatician."
I chuckle bitterly in a cough. Blood intertwined with pieces of my burlap throat and lung butter. I spread it out on the cement like toast.
I spell out -save yourself-
It's been a long winter.
to be continued...
-kurt hustle the insomniac bolatician
Still haven't slept yet.
2 comments:
treal
you mean that woo woo!!!
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