gloamingdaydream

The air waves are different tonight. A spark of dawn lost in moonlight, a blindfold covering my eyes, my head resting on a dark cushion as everything around me bleeds out. The half-filled glass of orange juice that I would buy from the local market every weekend, still there but slowly shattering. I’m afraid that if I let it out of my grasp, it’ll fade forever into stardust, but if I hold on too tight I’ll break it even quicker. What should I do, really? I want to feel that taste again, I want to keep sliding down the slippery slope of habit. I want to find comfort in repetition, but it’s breaking, it’s all breaking. 

The air waves are different tonight. There’s something right there, right behind me, it follows my every step, it disappears when I turn around to look at it. It’s there, but I can’t see it, something waiting behind me. Something waiting to chew me, something wanting to brand me as a traitor as I leave it all to rest. I went to the park tonight, and the swingset was gone. Some guy murdered it with a baseball bat, they said, swung and swung and swung, over and over and over again, reducing it to pieces of its own soul.

The air waves are different tonight. Everything’s different tonight. I see the shelves next to my bed, but they don’t fool me. I don’t need to see for myself to know that these thousands upon thousands of pages have all been meticulously replicated and replaced by inferior impostors. Maybe if I look away, they’ll stop changing. The words on the page. They aren’t the same as they used to be, it’s a trick. Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll forget the change I see. I won’t have to see as the walls rot and turn to flesh and bone and melt and turn topside and I won’t have to watch as the microwave burns itself alive in a blaze of furious glory.

Will they come and say goodbye? Who knows.