(no subject)
Getting away for the weekend. Disconnect. No phones. No reception anyway. No pens, no papers, no music.
Just Me. My head. My space. Me. Me. Me.
"All that's sacred" he drones "comes from youth"
Eyes pulled away from a microscope after hours of searching the stained slide for a cure to my disease.
The needle presents itself to me, the torniquet rustles a vein from its hiding place in the crook of my arm. The flesh pierces easily, new rabbits down old holes. But no more.
Getting away for the weekend. Disconnected. No distractions. Well earned rest for weary thoughts.
"I still remember" he continues "why don't you?...don't you...?"
The words fall away....silently strangled by thought....
"This is not for you."
This is for me. Freedom. From me.
I felt so militant about it, so strong in the rebellion against myself, but at my full height I find myself melting down again....