That fuck-you villain complex is as transparent as the Antichrist. (pt. 2)

I used to think I wanted children. Two boys and a daugter.
I wanted to give them musical names and dress them up.
I suppose that idea always stuck and now I’m aware that even in a near perfect world, it could never work the way I once thought it could.

A decade later later and I’ve grown up a bit, but hell, I could have grown up years ago when everybody else did. When Delsi quit drugs and was hired on by Vivienne Westwood In England, When Abbi got married and had children of her own, got divorced and burned her house down, when Amanda died of Alcohol poisoning and I wasn’t there for any of that.

I wanted a love that would defy a world propelled by its anti progress and indifferently fluttering between civil war and peace. I wanted a love that would negate being reduced to a single digit or a formula tested near-truth in a world of dark and light and light and dark.
I wanted an affectionate urgency to silence the machine of my heart in a molecular maelstrom of double helixes.

But now, I stumble over the edges and gravity of my own sad routine.

Sometimes,
I weaken-
and I snap-
and I begin to notice the blank space between moments that coax me so desperately in, threatening to devour me, bones and all, without softness or kindness to envelope me in the motion of my day and deliver me into a new tomorrow, unscathed.

There is an irrefutable absence in my vacuumed everything; my mornings and my nights, I’m tugged unwillingly into the expanse between what feels like supernovas without hopes or goals to tether me to any particular orbit.

And I fall from cleaning the dishes, from smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee into the cloying film of having lost motivation for good and for real this time. I am removed from the bustle of driving and traffic, from leaving and arriving, distant and closeness, beyond the reach of rescue .

So, it is, daily life on the distant shore. I become lost between living room and bedroom, lost between sheets and sleep. I suffer the vertigo of a thousand years of isolation and I swear I fill with nausea over the heaving desert of my missing youth and I long for its impossible return; to give to me, exuberance and purpose I may have never had at all.

I begin reliving the past and narrating my hopes to empty rooms. I realize that I have been slowly removing myself from my own memories, near-utopian solitude has given me ample time with my own doubts and surplus time to pass judgment on myself.
I open my heart and let my misery fly high in the quiet company of tears, and now I can perform on the stage where this loneliness is deeply understood.

I hang up picture after picture upon the living room walls to remind myself that art exists without me. I go to the window to look at the sun- but the blur is just too much.
I rub my chest and find my scar. I love this scar. It proclaims I’ve done foolish things in foolish ways and survived, albeit obliquely.

Without ever moving from the couch I would feel nothing today except for a slow-burning boredom, then it would die away (boredom is a part-time employee), to be replaced by self-pity  (boredom’s harder working cousin). Self-pity is crafty with his hammer and panel saw. Two rotating blades honed sharp. The first reels me in and the second tears me apart.

Could be worrying.

Could be very bad.

I need to sleep. Need to give way to obligatory languor–to low lighting. Better to lie down now. I know that tomorrow will be awful. If not tomorrow, then the day after. Everyone has bad days. But my bad days have anniversaries. There are shadows on the wall, long and black, and they are crawling toward me like determined beetles.
They’re real things.
They might bite.
Watching them scares the wits out of me.
must sleep…
But I sleepwalk almost every night, and its gotten worse as of late.Somnambulism is a precarious state of trance and animation,
waking and walking,
death and resurrection,
near-abduction and near-ransom.

Im blinking…

Im blinking…

I’m trying to blink…

But all I see lives behind my eyelids.
All I remember is flash flood memories shining through the dull drifts of my slumber.
All I feel is wide asleep, grasping for consciousness; one never quite illuminated.
Its a storm full of dreams and visions: often what distinctly seems like voices talking to me.

I’m not having withdrawls, no, Its been over a decade since I’ve seen anything as a result of psycotropics anyway. I turn on the light to investigate, but I find nothing.
I am striding about like a wandering vagrant with my eyes shut tightly, and I begin to develop the audacity of bending my own mobile yet unapproachable cognizance.
My world is my bedroom and I may or I may not be delirious, with low spirits and even lesser hope.

I become Dostoyevskian lore addict scheming sketchy outlines of the phantasmal strangers who cling to my walls at night. The ones who crawl the ceilings of my cell in the still darkness. I know they exist. Those pearl eyed imaginary playmates of prepostrous height and impossible forms.

During the day, They hide within the framed paintings I hung on my wall, crouching beneath loggias, riding on the backs of stone lions, swallowing frogs like croaking bon-bons, and clicking their tongues to croon with the cicadas.

I see them there; their non-sequitir phenomenons aimed at my psyche on the tips of laughing arrows, multivocal obiter-dictums; all words living beyond their reason, landing their target on every puzzling pull. They have fluent symbols in their presence and there is a massive power behind their mystery. Reality is splitting away at its non-cohesive seams fraying the edges and turning these enigmas into my own fool’s paradise.

I was standing in the middle of my hallway, and a creature dressed in a finely tailored grey suit- tall, imposing chimera, body of a man, head of a crocodile, a pair of deer antlers starts taking my mesurements for a suit of my own.

I saw it first, peeking from the edge of my doorway waving its antlered head in acknowledgement of my presence.

Was it drawn perhaps by the music? The incense?

In a message confirming my own misgivings, It saw me there.

“Look,” I said,” I’m really sorry, but you shouldn’t be here right now, I’m trying to sleep…

Yesterday, today and tomorrow Until the end of time. Be gone!”

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