mad bad and dangerous to know.
Woke up to the air in the room stale and thick as glue. Something pushing in my head, behind my eyes trying to get out. Applying so much pressure that in the moments when it fades I wonder if my head will implode, collapse in on itself. If I’m quiet and stay still I can almost hear it briefly, but it knows I’m looking and hides - I picture it crouching, sniggering into it’s clawed hand.
The world outside disgusts me, filled with stark raw images calling "buy me I’m good, better, best!" - iconic pictures of media familiar people grinning down at me from billboards and posters trying to look friendly and soothing but coming over as desperate liars. The smell of the world is congealed cooking fat and I shudder, my skin prickling and shifting around on my flesh - loose as if unattached.
The thing that was pushing at my eyes is in my throat now pretending to be a word. Swirling round the base of my neck like wine in a glass, acting harmless trying to trick me into speaking so that I will let it out. It knows I’m not that easily fooled but likes to torment me like this for it’s own amusement.
The clamor is momentarily too much and I stop and stand still, eyes closed. Oblivious to other people the notion comes to me that if I stay like this long enough I will become invisible and would be able to stand here endlessly. It’s an appealing idea but I’m not sure if it’s the invisibility or the stillness that I crave, so - conflicted - I open my eyes and move on.
I’m breathing too fast and walking too quickly. The pain in the finger of my right hand is back and I worry for the hundredth time that it might be arthritis. It’s bad today and possibly because of it I have sweat on my lip that I wipe away - then without thinking lick it from my hand. As if drinking neat gin when you expected the glass to be filled with water the taste is jarring. On some level I anticipated the taste of blood or metal but it simply tastes of salt. Salt and me distilled down to a liquid. How much of me is contained within that taste? Could I sweat dry of self? Could I lay down in a river and slowly bleed out of my pores ‘till I was gone, joining the torrent leaving only a body - something in the shape of me.
The noise from the cars and people is a drone, undercut buy something else - something other - like the keening of a far off animal. I try to concentrate on the sound and place it - momentarily worried that it might be me making the noise. The sound fades, as does the background clatter and I’ve stopped again - looking at the faces and vehicles moving silently to and fro. They all seem effortless in this soundless landscape - I watch the wheels of a van go round as it passes. Everything seems more elegant in silence, oddly beautiful. Is a deaf world peace or purgatory?
The ache in my finger now seems comfortingly normal. A distraction. I fold the finger inwards and press down on it with my thumb and it flares out as far as my wrist, shrill and burning. It feels abstract and remote yet realer than everything else today. Clean and pure.
The world outside disgusts me, filled with stark raw images calling "buy me I’m good, better, best!" - iconic pictures of media familiar people grinning down at me from billboards and posters trying to look friendly and soothing but coming over as desperate liars. The smell of the world is congealed cooking fat and I shudder, my skin prickling and shifting around on my flesh - loose as if unattached.
The thing that was pushing at my eyes is in my throat now pretending to be a word. Swirling round the base of my neck like wine in a glass, acting harmless trying to trick me into speaking so that I will let it out. It knows I’m not that easily fooled but likes to torment me like this for it’s own amusement.
The clamor is momentarily too much and I stop and stand still, eyes closed. Oblivious to other people the notion comes to me that if I stay like this long enough I will become invisible and would be able to stand here endlessly. It’s an appealing idea but I’m not sure if it’s the invisibility or the stillness that I crave, so - conflicted - I open my eyes and move on.
I’m breathing too fast and walking too quickly. The pain in the finger of my right hand is back and I worry for the hundredth time that it might be arthritis. It’s bad today and possibly because of it I have sweat on my lip that I wipe away - then without thinking lick it from my hand. As if drinking neat gin when you expected the glass to be filled with water the taste is jarring. On some level I anticipated the taste of blood or metal but it simply tastes of salt. Salt and me distilled down to a liquid. How much of me is contained within that taste? Could I sweat dry of self? Could I lay down in a river and slowly bleed out of my pores ‘till I was gone, joining the torrent leaving only a body - something in the shape of me.
The noise from the cars and people is a drone, undercut buy something else - something other - like the keening of a far off animal. I try to concentrate on the sound and place it - momentarily worried that it might be me making the noise. The sound fades, as does the background clatter and I’ve stopped again - looking at the faces and vehicles moving silently to and fro. They all seem effortless in this soundless landscape - I watch the wheels of a van go round as it passes. Everything seems more elegant in silence, oddly beautiful. Is a deaf world peace or purgatory?
The ache in my finger now seems comfortingly normal. A distraction. I fold the finger inwards and press down on it with my thumb and it flares out as far as my wrist, shrill and burning. It feels abstract and remote yet realer than everything else today. Clean and pure.