(no subject)
1:02 AM
and i can't sleep.
one arm can, but the rest of me,
well no.
heavy with the weight of death,
that one bad arm tingles
all the way from the bathroom
to the kitchen,
and when i touch the door handle
its like seven different string rays
attacking the same limb
in some sadistic harmony.
but i want something.
cheerios and milk.
ice water.
something to soothe.
so i'm sitting down here,
eating,
alone,
in the dark.
and my mind is both blank,
and occupied.
my eyelids are heavy,
and i just shovel cereal into my mouth.
it's like im eating my way towards
some sort of answer,
but i don't know what question ive asked.
i only know that i am hungry.
and i can see my fathers shadow,
on the wall,
against the stairs.
he calls my name.
aryn?
are you ok?
can't sleep again?
i think,
does it happen this often?
have i become a pattern,
a regular?
but i snap instead.
"no, i was hungry".
my tone is so chilling,
so cold,
and i don't understand how i can be so mean
to my own father.
it's not really meanness,
i suppose,
just that waker's attitude of angst.
i think im just lashing out,
because i can see where my life is going.
and it ain't pretty.
i spent the day alone.
i worked extra hours because
i knew i had nothing else to do.
i went job hunting.
i have an interview on wednesday.
my nights have become empty.
i've got all this time that needs to be filled up.
i feel very lonely.
so i went to the book store,
read some articles,
and talked long-distance.
but it just ain't the same.
i see everyone living their lives
except for me.
so i want to pretend,
that i am.
and that involves cultivated
hobbies,
to fill up all these hours.
i want to pretend i believe
that each grain of sand is precious,
savoring it,
slowly rolling the hot,
dry little knives around on my tongue,
in a long procession that will last
from here to eternity.
or the end of my time.
just remember,
you're as great as the giants.
and lines composed
at 1:20am
are worth their weight
in thought.
and i can't sleep.
one arm can, but the rest of me,
well no.
heavy with the weight of death,
that one bad arm tingles
all the way from the bathroom
to the kitchen,
and when i touch the door handle
its like seven different string rays
attacking the same limb
in some sadistic harmony.
but i want something.
cheerios and milk.
ice water.
something to soothe.
so i'm sitting down here,
eating,
alone,
in the dark.
and my mind is both blank,
and occupied.
my eyelids are heavy,
and i just shovel cereal into my mouth.
it's like im eating my way towards
some sort of answer,
but i don't know what question ive asked.
i only know that i am hungry.
and i can see my fathers shadow,
on the wall,
against the stairs.
he calls my name.
aryn?
are you ok?
can't sleep again?
i think,
does it happen this often?
have i become a pattern,
a regular?
but i snap instead.
"no, i was hungry".
my tone is so chilling,
so cold,
and i don't understand how i can be so mean
to my own father.
it's not really meanness,
i suppose,
just that waker's attitude of angst.
i think im just lashing out,
because i can see where my life is going.
and it ain't pretty.
i spent the day alone.
i worked extra hours because
i knew i had nothing else to do.
i went job hunting.
i have an interview on wednesday.
my nights have become empty.
i've got all this time that needs to be filled up.
i feel very lonely.
so i went to the book store,
read some articles,
and talked long-distance.
but it just ain't the same.
i see everyone living their lives
except for me.
so i want to pretend,
that i am.
and that involves cultivated
hobbies,
to fill up all these hours.
i want to pretend i believe
that each grain of sand is precious,
savoring it,
slowly rolling the hot,
dry little knives around on my tongue,
in a long procession that will last
from here to eternity.
or the end of my time.
just remember,
you're as great as the giants.
and lines composed
at 1:20am
are worth their weight
in thought.