(no subject)
He woke up and slid socks that didn’t match over his cold feet. He never wore matching socks, EVER. Somewhere along the course of his twenty-two years he decided there were more important things around him than worrying about taking the time to meticulously match up socks after they left the dryer so it would be easier to pick out a pair in the morning. It just didn’t matter.
His brain had been jumbled from the long night alone in his bed. He had nightmares, of course, with the usual familiar themes, but this time was different. New topics were mixed into the mess: Car crashes and things left unsaid and mixed body language and isolation. The isolation nightmare was new, only being revealed through his subconscious in the recent months. The haunting memory of being buried deep in desert sand so that only the body starting from the chin is exposed to the atmosphere. A heat so deep that it could be felt in the thickest bones, causing tiny beads of salty sweat to drip from the drenched cuticles of his curly black hair into his hate-filled red eyes, stinging them, but the body is unable to wince. That was the absolute worst part, he thought as he sat on the edge of his bed. The restricted motion. Enough to make any individual go mad. Not being able to be free. Not being able to rescue himself. Being completely tethered, longing for just a little freedom.
He also wondered who it was that put him there. The subconscious is a tricky thing, especially with nightmares. Someone is symbolized by this predicament, but there were far too many characters in his life in present memory that could have been the culprit. Maybe it was someone who he wasn’t thinking of. Someone that would have wanted him to rot in that hole, being left for dead.
But that didn’t matter. The hammock was waiting for him. He couldn’t lie in bed any longer. Usually when he felt the way he did he lied in bed for hours just starring at the ceiling, without a reason to get out of bed. But on this particular morning there was just far too much literature not to be read. He liked to read.
Reading wasn’t exactly an escape to him. It was more of a lesson plan. Being able to seek out and assimilate new ideas or full out reject them caused him great pleasure. Even more than discussing the learned ideas.
There was his mother in another one of her morning moods. Outside. Shearing some ugly landscaped shrub like she knew what she doing. A yard that would never look like the neighbor’s landscaping no matter how much work is put into it. A fight was coming.
It ended with the words
“I’m looking for a new place to live.”
His brain had been jumbled from the long night alone in his bed. He had nightmares, of course, with the usual familiar themes, but this time was different. New topics were mixed into the mess: Car crashes and things left unsaid and mixed body language and isolation. The isolation nightmare was new, only being revealed through his subconscious in the recent months. The haunting memory of being buried deep in desert sand so that only the body starting from the chin is exposed to the atmosphere. A heat so deep that it could be felt in the thickest bones, causing tiny beads of salty sweat to drip from the drenched cuticles of his curly black hair into his hate-filled red eyes, stinging them, but the body is unable to wince. That was the absolute worst part, he thought as he sat on the edge of his bed. The restricted motion. Enough to make any individual go mad. Not being able to be free. Not being able to rescue himself. Being completely tethered, longing for just a little freedom.
He also wondered who it was that put him there. The subconscious is a tricky thing, especially with nightmares. Someone is symbolized by this predicament, but there were far too many characters in his life in present memory that could have been the culprit. Maybe it was someone who he wasn’t thinking of. Someone that would have wanted him to rot in that hole, being left for dead.
But that didn’t matter. The hammock was waiting for him. He couldn’t lie in bed any longer. Usually when he felt the way he did he lied in bed for hours just starring at the ceiling, without a reason to get out of bed. But on this particular morning there was just far too much literature not to be read. He liked to read.
Reading wasn’t exactly an escape to him. It was more of a lesson plan. Being able to seek out and assimilate new ideas or full out reject them caused him great pleasure. Even more than discussing the learned ideas.
There was his mother in another one of her morning moods. Outside. Shearing some ugly landscaped shrub like she knew what she doing. A yard that would never look like the neighbor’s landscaping no matter how much work is put into it. A fight was coming.
It ended with the words
“I’m looking for a new place to live.”