martes, 1 de diciembre de 2009

Why I hate morning coffee now

You watch the people walk around and pass you by.
You notice they're overdressed and overweight and overwhelmed.
No, you're overwhelmed. They're smiling. Breaking the only rule.
And you watch them smile, so carelessly, as if this was Summer instead of Winter. And you wonder what keeps them warm inside. What are you missing and why you are so cold.
You get tired, spill the coffee on the table and spit some lame excuse to get out of that place and run away, run away. You want to smash your head against the greenish wall at the end of the alley that's right around the corner. You want to split your head open and step on your thoughts like you once stepped into someone else's mind. The way you infiltrate people's minds sickens you. You feel a little dizzy now. Stop.
Stop this thing. And wake up.
Get out of bed. Open up your curtains.
You're on the floor now. You feel like a bug. And your name is not Samsa, and your name is not Kafka and in fact, you don't even know what your name is. Was. Will be.
You start repeating the first word that comes to your mind... "choir". "Choir, choir, choir, choir..." Until it somehow dissolves in the space around you. And you watch the word float away along with the dust and sun rays that make their way into your room through the hole in your window. And you blow a little bit to make shapes in the air. And you watch the dust become a huge whirlwind and now it's dragged you inside and you're spinning without control and you're weightless and you like it. You are lost. And you love it.
For 5 min.
Then you cry, cry like that night when you were vulnerable for the first time. You remember that night, with yours eyes covered in stardust and you remember how soft the sheet was and just how naked you felt. Exposed. And you didn't mind much back then. Until you did. And you cried. And you were lost. And you reached for a hand, and the hand was there for you.
Not only the hand but the arm, not only an arm but two. Not only that, someone was there for you. To hold you with his two arms, to wrap you around with his eyes and his mouth that touched your cracked skin. And he wrapped you, and it was okay.
Now the whirlwind's got you, all wrapped up.
You want to reach his hand.
And then it hits you that you're the murderer. It was all because of you. All of that spilt coffee, and all the anxiety attacks and that hopeless need to hit the wall was because you did it and you couldn't remember. You killed him. You cut off his hands. You ate them whole. And they're keeping your heart frozen.
You cannot forget.


Written over 2 years ago. And I'm not sure if I like it, but I'd rather not let it get lost.

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