(no subject)
I think that if I end up behind double-locked doors in a mental hospital (perhaps McLean) one day, which is entirely possible, my files are going to say that January 1, 2004, was the day I went crazy. I was sitting on my floor, sorting through some books from my poorly organized bookshelf, when I felt as though water had began slowly dripping on my head. The thoughts came down gradually, one by one, images of his hands, his shoulders, his lips, all foreign to me. The flow increased, the images growing more familiar, more coherent: his eyes, his hand on my shoulder, his lips on my neck. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, there was blood all over me, and and all I could see was the freeway behind a dirty windshield, and I was staring blankly ahead as some acquaintance drove me home. I was slightly dizzy but I felt sober; a bitter June cold was sneaking in through the open skyroof and crawling under my borrowed varsity jacket. Then I was back in my room, on the floor, January first, still feeling the cold. It was sudden, a now a dark cloud, an entire sky, of water, of my blood, of my memories, pounding through my skin like nails under a hammer. I leaned against a wall and sat still for ten, twenty minutes, maybe a half hour, not making a sound, seeing only bruises and screams. I felt it lower than in my mind, deeper than in my skin; I felt it in my stoamch, in my womb, and through the bones of my hips. I was being torn into by some hateful substance that had seeped through my skin and had now permeated my bones and blood vessels. It was in me, a very real and tangible insanity, and as I dragged my body up and hauled it into bed, I felt it, a thick and viscous substance settling into the corners and valleys of my organ tissue and weakened muscles.