(no subject)
Today I was looking under rocks again. I do this when life starts to dry out. What I found, beneath a flat, gray stone, was a shrivelled old man roughly three inches in stature, lying half curled in the cold damp dirt. He blinked his tiny mothwinged eyelids in the invading sunlight and turned his head to peer at me. He looked to me like the root of a delicate plant, or something you would find in a bowl of Chinese soup. "Fuck off." he said, and then pressed his thin white face back into the rich brown soil. I gently placed the rock on top of him, whispered an apology, and went to get some lunch.
I have more and more trouble getting out of bed these days. You know why? Because wakefulness has nothing to offer me, that's why. I am usually occupied with picking golden fish from a tree to let them whisper their tiny secrets into my ear in fish language, or running across endless green places with people loved me in childhood, when some cold hearted creature knocks on my door to announce that noon has come again with lunchtime riding tightly at its heels. Some misplaced puritanical ethic has these people convinced that there is an intrinsic value to being awake. This is a filthy and dangerous lie. I want to curl up in a cave and sleep forever with a blanket and a polar bear. This polar bear would be named Charles, and he would be my friend. I would lie against his cotton white stomach, huge and warm and moving gently with each vast polar bear breath, and we would sleep, and our dreams would drift like squid across the cold void between our dreaming minds, and I would pull salmon from streams, and he would dance through twilight courtyards with beautiful women, and we would be more alive than God and more awake than every wide eyed junkie riding a wave of methamphetamine directly into the sun or crawling down the street on a carpet of shattered beer bottles trying to make sense of this mess before their teeth fall out.
You can have it all. Mathmatical streetcorners left vacant in the petroleum nightfall. Shiny black buildings packed to the top with inoffensive decor and precison suicide. I'm tired. I want to hang up my skin and disappear. I am going to sleep, to be perfect and beautiful for as long as I can. I will probably give up at around three, and I will immediately be hungry and cold and have nothing worthwhile to do, and someone will ask me how I can stand to sleep the whole day away.
I have more and more trouble getting out of bed these days. You know why? Because wakefulness has nothing to offer me, that's why. I am usually occupied with picking golden fish from a tree to let them whisper their tiny secrets into my ear in fish language, or running across endless green places with people loved me in childhood, when some cold hearted creature knocks on my door to announce that noon has come again with lunchtime riding tightly at its heels. Some misplaced puritanical ethic has these people convinced that there is an intrinsic value to being awake. This is a filthy and dangerous lie. I want to curl up in a cave and sleep forever with a blanket and a polar bear. This polar bear would be named Charles, and he would be my friend. I would lie against his cotton white stomach, huge and warm and moving gently with each vast polar bear breath, and we would sleep, and our dreams would drift like squid across the cold void between our dreaming minds, and I would pull salmon from streams, and he would dance through twilight courtyards with beautiful women, and we would be more alive than God and more awake than every wide eyed junkie riding a wave of methamphetamine directly into the sun or crawling down the street on a carpet of shattered beer bottles trying to make sense of this mess before their teeth fall out.
You can have it all. Mathmatical streetcorners left vacant in the petroleum nightfall. Shiny black buildings packed to the top with inoffensive decor and precison suicide. I'm tired. I want to hang up my skin and disappear. I am going to sleep, to be perfect and beautiful for as long as I can. I will probably give up at around three, and I will immediately be hungry and cold and have nothing worthwhile to do, and someone will ask me how I can stand to sleep the whole day away.