(no subject)
I'm running down this long winding road after the storm. The air is mute, still, no sound, no weight, just numb. The ground beneath is cracked, uneven, damp peacock feathers scattered on the ground for dust. The air above a sheet of grey and damp white. Somewhere behind the marble, I know there's my long lost blue.
I look to my left and my right and all I see is the aftermath. There’s just flood land surrounding this long road dotted with human meat floating face up, their swollen indigo parachute faces and empty grey eyes and bodies contorted in frozen desperate clawing poise reaching for the yellow dead kudzu.
There’s no dignity there.
I keep running, my movements thick and aquatic and covered in molasses. I keep running until my bones ache and the tears erode away layers of skin. I keep running even when those very bones rip though the tissue, tear through the skin and shed my exo-form. These bare bones have a goal but choose to remain secretive. Relishing in their own private achievements, their satisfaction given away in that grim eternal smile, drunk off of il vino dei morti, the wine of the dead. The bones run towards a sheet of white pure light, where the road ends and things are no longer solid. The bones run and run but degrade into peacock feather dust before they can lure themselves into false hope.
I’ve been having this same dream now for about three weeks straight. I really need some help.
I’m not even feeling cathartic anymore like in that last entry. Now I’m just plain scared shitless. I can’t stop shaking and since I have allergies, whenever I smoke, it feels like I’m going to die. But when everything’s clear, when there’s no pain, no harsh breath and the ciggies come and go, I feel nothing and I smoke until I can.
I want to thank everyone who replied on the last entry. I don’t usually like writing things like this down; usually I keep them all inside. But lately that seems like all I can do. This is the closest I can get to catharsis without saying anything. Even while I was trying to talk to that girl you all don’t know the throat just felt so damned hollow.
I would take it upon myself to go see a grey-suited, licensed professional, but my wallet got stolen at a Waffle House while I was getting my mother some kind of scattered all the way hash-brown thingy. I don’t want to have her take me obviously because I can’t stand to be treated gingerly, especially by her, especially not now, especially not since I know how I feel.
I think I’m even starting to hear things, voices from the Summerland wailing my name. I only hear these things when I’m alone (physically that is), never when there are other people around. How do I even know if I’m alone anymore? I’m so damned disconnected I can’t even function at work. Although, it’s not like I was that great of an employee to begin with. I have FOUR no call/no shows from being late and not calling in within 5 minutes on the hour, once I was even late for FIVE HOURS (!!!) and I somehow still have my job. I hate to be treated like something special. I hate to be treated like glass when really how I feel is like sand; I’ll just pass through your fingers and get stuck in your hair.
There’s this guy at work, who’s so nice, and happy, who’s filled with this strange inner glow, who’s a fellow spiritualist and even comes to ME for advice on philosophy and meditation and things of that nature. On break, we have these long really in-depth conversations and I just feel like I’m falling into those same disgusting habits I fell into back in high school. It was so foolish of me to think that just because I left the place that the situation would change.
Ugh, this needs to end. I can’t wait until January, then I can at least be secure in knowing that love is against the rules and I can start focusing on a goal instead of crumbling.
Ostrich and Egret and Peacock had very small dreams.
Thinking of them just reminds me of calendar scenes.
Nobody's laughing when everyone's weeping, it seems.
So that's How We Quit the Forest.
The scene wasn't what it used to be.
The scene is never what it used to be.
So, that's How We Quit the Forest.
Rasputina
-How we Quit the Forest