gloamingdaydream

Black and boiled and pillow turning and tummy tumbling and tommy’s hurting and my back, adjacent to the spiritzed sprinkle of dust that spawns casually and continuously, meanwhile my four fingers feel like falling off, or more specifically being torn to shreds from the inside, blood cajoling all the time at all costs and furthermore they sometimes send that synthesis to other parts of my ever ailing cadavre, but alas today it’s the palm’s turn to feel that shame of ingratitude that shows me life and keeps me grounded. It is in that moment that I find myself unable to escape, bound to a rock, a chain around my waist. Don’t go, it says, stay here for all eternity. And it does, it does feel like eternity, I checked how long it has and all it says are that less than 10 minutes have passed since the dark fell, and oh how I felt like crushing that monstrous atrocity with my nail-less fingers, how dare you pretend to hold me captive inside my own perspective? If I try to count the moments, the grand, ever flowing drop of a raging waterfall will drown me into an even larger nemesis, and so I must find a way to eclipse this torment, drop towards the drawn land of my toe tips which stick out of this fluffy coffin and reach out toward the blazing current of air that flies around and refuses to engage with that shell.

There is a sharp pain inside me, perhaps I swallowed a needle without realizing it. Maybe it was at the airport when I stood there for thirty five minutes with a stubbornly aching back and a bag filled with heavy books and cds, waiting for the big one to arrive. Four T minutes was never the standard, or was it really? Once again, the spade filled with the answers evades me, I can’t tell if it has shattered or if it still hides somewhere in that closet which I thought was full but somehow still fills a bucketload of emptiness. The spaces inside are filled with nothing, and the more nothing grows, the more something dies. The needle inside me still remains, it’s on a heater right now, stabbing me with an eerie blend of steel, iron regicide. The lightning bolt that shivers my back from low to high, from finish to start, and vice versa, lays delayed and refuses to remind me of a time where the needle lay not in the haystack of my organs. It stabs from inside but I feel it on the tip of my skin, the area is expanding. My forehead ends the drought and pours out the flamed water, it drops onto the dusty sheet and the covers and my neck breaks in two fold and does away with the mountainous height that brings about it an era of causality. Everywhere buzzes like a drone, they all stiffen up and freeze like a fragile frame that could crack and fall apart at any second. The cover that surrounds me, and once acted like the insides of a volcano, metamorphosed into a cold icy pit. And yet still, yet still, the ice burns me, the snow radiates fatal warmth, the heat wave remains on the top of my own mount Everest.

I contemplate leaving for a second, to turn the fan on, that which I had left empty, to rest, recover, recharge. I had imagined it overheating, the imaginary sparks turning into a real crustaceous demon that discharges all souls in its path, but perhaps that would have been a preference to the slow poison that permeates itself everywhere within me. I tried to remove the pillow, and in doing so my neck once again cried out. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I toss and turn, still inside the protective sheet that either warms or freezes. It fluctuates oddly, with no pattern or figurative element that sets it off, but still I must do with it, I cannot imagine my skin exposed, my home abandoned, and my vulnerabilities exploited.

What time is it? Fourteen minutes have passed since I last checked, it feels more like seven years. The odd presence of personalities and voices have long since left my peacock, I am abandoned to seven years lurked away on the magic mountain, my disease incurable. But instead of going up there, the mountain came down to me. I reach to my side, my bottle is there, but empty. Even if it had been full, there is no way to tell if it would have remained unaffected by the blistering blaze of despair that eats away at my heart. My lips quiver with the enmity of a slashed blade, the scent of a dinner consumed years prior begins to slightly stench the inside of my teeth, where my tongue meets them.

The needle is still somewhere inside me. I have grown used to the growing pains, the sharp knife of eons ago has been dulled into a stick who’s pokes are now a mere constant annoyance that remind me of its existence at times. I cover my head with the abyss, total darkness abruptly sinks in, no more flashes of light that seep in through the the cracks in the windowsheets. My heart beats like a drum, the singular proof of my non nonexistence, at least so far. Stardust leaps at me, covers my entire body with a sticky substance. I remain still, seated so far on my side, unable to compromise on the selected assertions of pain that assault every member of my symphony that comes into contact with the outside physical realm. I shut my eyes, the dark is sealed off by dark. Two layers of pure black, an anticipation, or a prediction, of an emptiness that awaits me when my organs shut down, hopefully soon. I dread the immaculate poke of the moment light returns, of when this nightmare of a dream ends. I asked to be pulled back, to stay eternally within the minute, and so it occurs. The watch no longer moves forward, the clock no longer ticks on, it is all silent as the neverending night.