Stream of consciousness (direct head-port)
Bright sun, suddenly midday. Too much bloom, it blinds, but warm, just a little. Thin warmth of a winter noonday sun, lukewarm, soupy, not quite reaching the bones but trying all the same. More just illuminating winter-bleached skin, bright, bright, too-bright white and blue-grey where the veins sit over the thin muscles. Fluid on the lungs, whistles when you breathe, the kind of whistle that smothers you in suffocation and head-cracking racks and hacks if you focus on it too much. No wonder the muscles are so thin. No way to run, this way, not outside in that frosty air and weak, lipservice sun.
Don't feel clean when I wake up, warm from the bed. Flannelette offers warmth and comfort, but not the clean satisfaction of stiff linen. No sharp, precise hospital corners, folded with a knife edge and tucked in hard enough that that's the only thing that can fit between the sheet folds. I try anyway, make a soft, crumpled mess, realise the sofa can't accomodate my desires. I miss hotels.
This place is mine, too mine, too obviously shared. The dominion of the space is marked in objects and possessions. Too many. Simultaneous precious hoardings and trash.
Actual trash on the floor, somehow. Old bones, stripped of every scrap and sucked of the last drops of marrow. Paper, junk mail, wrappers. Plates. I don't know how they get there.
The ashtray stinks and hurts my nose now, I can smell it from here. Must have been used this morning. Empty into the pitifully inadequate small trashcan in the kitchen, wash the cut glass until you could eat off it. Under the sink, away, clean.
Sense of tired wearyness coming back to the desk. Too much. The sofa refuses to fold back. Not enough floor space. I craze for a moment, the space suddenly far too small, suffocating. Breathe. It's gone again.
Eye the cigarette packet. Put it in the drawer, out of sight. At least that's one thing.
Dream for a minute, distract, cat on my lap. Dream of simple wants (and complex needs I don't quite know all the way through, things I will barely let myself think about long enough to describe so I won't). A clean, spartan apartment unit, enough space within. Oaken dining table. Leather furniture. Heavy steel door. Working lights, with dimmers to make it precisely as bright or as dark as I want it. Heating that reaches and soaks into every room, comforting, dozing on the leather sofa in desert heat and sunset lowlight, dreaming of older days when I took the desert for granted. Dreaming of money, that perplexing and frustrating necessity, so that I might just be able to kick loose my family's traditional spiral of hand-to-mouth non-ambition. Might one day stop being so hungry, always and forever, starving.
I wonder if it's all mine, the same way I wonder if the other unwanted anomales are all mine. The blood might be tied to the hunger might be tied to the viciousness. Might all be a sideaffect, not me but a leftover shred, a splinter left behind deep inside to fester and madden. Glint of fang, too bright eyes. Won't know now. If it isn't, it's been there too long to take away. If it is, it might be all I have left.
Wish I could remember. Feel poisoned, tainted. Maybe that was the aim for me. Let the mind and heart go where it will, where it must, but make sure the body can only be satisfied one way. Cruel, really. Never said there wasn't evil, selfishness in h--
Hungry. Always, always. Worse in the mornings. The fridge isn't promising, strange smell in the back. Cluttered, full yet empty. Weary again. Alone, I would not live like this. If this is life. But. Always a but. Don't want to be truly alone. The lonely periods are bad enough. Shouldn't be left alone with me too long, least of all myself. Was being alone always so much? Where is my memory. Where are the missing years. Where did I learn to--
Meat. Plastic bag at the back. Scraps from the butchers, dog bones. A little meat, mainly fat and sinew. Under the grill, three or four, need to keep fuelled up to get this cough out of me and there's not much on these. A beast better eat like one.
Sit to wait. Check the onlines. In class now, but the phone's been charged. Don't want a repeat of yesterday's disappointment. This is what happens when I deviate from my patterns. Listen to the music sent the nights before, paying attention to lyrics more than tune. Must remember that not everyone thinks like me, used to being an emotionally expressive mute. Most people don't communicate in lyrics, don't fall into the habit of encoding data into song selection, don't need to since they have the words. I don't, not any that sound right. My words die in my throat when I hear how flat and dead they would sound. I have a hundred thousand things I want to say, none of which ever make it out because of a hundred different reasons. Don't want to use any less than perfect words. Don't want to annoy with conceived needless repetition. Don't want to be misheard, or not heard at all.
That would be the worst of them. Carefully carve these perfect words from that one bright, warm place I have left inside, and not know if they were even ever heard. Better not to talk, most times. When I'm brave enough, actions are clearer than any words. Not often that brave; inch forward instead, just a tiny fraction every few months. In this one thing, my patience is endless. It's worth it. Crave warmth. Don't know how to ask, or even what it is I want to ask for. I know I want something, but what? I think I know, but that's... I don't know.
Wish I was telepathic. The limitations of communication drives me frantic. If only I could show the depth, the warmth, the texture, the taste of it. Is this synthesesia? Probably not. Jack of all trades, master of none, and losing more and more every day. Nearly deaf, can't speak, and how crippled it makes you feel.
Meat in my teeth. Sharp and tame. How did I get here?
Don't feel clean when I wake up, warm from the bed. Flannelette offers warmth and comfort, but not the clean satisfaction of stiff linen. No sharp, precise hospital corners, folded with a knife edge and tucked in hard enough that that's the only thing that can fit between the sheet folds. I try anyway, make a soft, crumpled mess, realise the sofa can't accomodate my desires. I miss hotels.
This place is mine, too mine, too obviously shared. The dominion of the space is marked in objects and possessions. Too many. Simultaneous precious hoardings and trash.
Actual trash on the floor, somehow. Old bones, stripped of every scrap and sucked of the last drops of marrow. Paper, junk mail, wrappers. Plates. I don't know how they get there.
The ashtray stinks and hurts my nose now, I can smell it from here. Must have been used this morning. Empty into the pitifully inadequate small trashcan in the kitchen, wash the cut glass until you could eat off it. Under the sink, away, clean.
Sense of tired wearyness coming back to the desk. Too much. The sofa refuses to fold back. Not enough floor space. I craze for a moment, the space suddenly far too small, suffocating. Breathe. It's gone again.
Eye the cigarette packet. Put it in the drawer, out of sight. At least that's one thing.
Dream for a minute, distract, cat on my lap. Dream of simple wants (and complex needs I don't quite know all the way through, things I will barely let myself think about long enough to describe so I won't). A clean, spartan apartment unit, enough space within. Oaken dining table. Leather furniture. Heavy steel door. Working lights, with dimmers to make it precisely as bright or as dark as I want it. Heating that reaches and soaks into every room, comforting, dozing on the leather sofa in desert heat and sunset lowlight, dreaming of older days when I took the desert for granted. Dreaming of money, that perplexing and frustrating necessity, so that I might just be able to kick loose my family's traditional spiral of hand-to-mouth non-ambition. Might one day stop being so hungry, always and forever, starving.
I wonder if it's all mine, the same way I wonder if the other unwanted anomales are all mine. The blood might be tied to the hunger might be tied to the viciousness. Might all be a sideaffect, not me but a leftover shred, a splinter left behind deep inside to fester and madden. Glint of fang, too bright eyes. Won't know now. If it isn't, it's been there too long to take away. If it is, it might be all I have left.
Wish I could remember. Feel poisoned, tainted. Maybe that was the aim for me. Let the mind and heart go where it will, where it must, but make sure the body can only be satisfied one way. Cruel, really. Never said there wasn't evil, selfishness in h--
Hungry. Always, always. Worse in the mornings. The fridge isn't promising, strange smell in the back. Cluttered, full yet empty. Weary again. Alone, I would not live like this. If this is life. But. Always a but. Don't want to be truly alone. The lonely periods are bad enough. Shouldn't be left alone with me too long, least of all myself. Was being alone always so much? Where is my memory. Where are the missing years. Where did I learn to--
Meat. Plastic bag at the back. Scraps from the butchers, dog bones. A little meat, mainly fat and sinew. Under the grill, three or four, need to keep fuelled up to get this cough out of me and there's not much on these. A beast better eat like one.
Sit to wait. Check the onlines. In class now, but the phone's been charged. Don't want a repeat of yesterday's disappointment. This is what happens when I deviate from my patterns. Listen to the music sent the nights before, paying attention to lyrics more than tune. Must remember that not everyone thinks like me, used to being an emotionally expressive mute. Most people don't communicate in lyrics, don't fall into the habit of encoding data into song selection, don't need to since they have the words. I don't, not any that sound right. My words die in my throat when I hear how flat and dead they would sound. I have a hundred thousand things I want to say, none of which ever make it out because of a hundred different reasons. Don't want to use any less than perfect words. Don't want to annoy with conceived needless repetition. Don't want to be misheard, or not heard at all.
That would be the worst of them. Carefully carve these perfect words from that one bright, warm place I have left inside, and not know if they were even ever heard. Better not to talk, most times. When I'm brave enough, actions are clearer than any words. Not often that brave; inch forward instead, just a tiny fraction every few months. In this one thing, my patience is endless. It's worth it. Crave warmth. Don't know how to ask, or even what it is I want to ask for. I know I want something, but what? I think I know, but that's... I don't know.
Wish I was telepathic. The limitations of communication drives me frantic. If only I could show the depth, the warmth, the texture, the taste of it. Is this synthesesia? Probably not. Jack of all trades, master of none, and losing more and more every day. Nearly deaf, can't speak, and how crippled it makes you feel.
Meat in my teeth. Sharp and tame. How did I get here?