Rough

Posted: March 4, 2008 in Uncategorized

The pulse in my head was thumping to the beat of a thousand electric drums; that all-too-familiar sound of techno music becoming in tune with the ever present beat of my heart, and by extension, the life giving pulses throughout my body. The sound, while familiar, was by no means comforting, but strangely, not unwelcome in its presence. The beat was always the same and somehow, the subconscious processes of my mind ensured that all the nerve endings and extensions of my brain relayed the rhythm to every inch of my exhausted temple.

I cannot tell you why, on this day, the rhythmic chant of youthful tribal music permeates my soul. Admittedly, my recollection of the evening before is scattered, or rather, non-existent. Such lack of recollection is not uncommon. Typically such black holes in my memory are substance induced and I often rely on the words of others to fill in the blanks; to assure me that my actions were not the actions of a madman. On this morning (or is it afternoon), I cannot recall falling into the rabbit hole. That’s not to say that I didn’t, of course, but as far as I can tell, my previous evening was spent in my less-than-appetizing flat. But at the same time, something is missing, and I dread that, for whatever reason, the missing piece is one that I would rather not remember. As they are always fond of saying, curiosity killed the cat, and my curiosity always wins the battle within.

My eyes crack open, matted and sticky like pink eye, or crying in my sleep. (bleeding) As one sensory perception begins to kick in, the thumping in my ears subsides in order to allow my mind to process new information. As is customary each morning, I notice the water stains on the ceiling and my wonderment of such things ceased long ago. The stains are nothing more than decoration; a constant part of life that I have come to accept when awaking each morning (afternoon). My view of these aesthetically unpleasing marks is brief as I roll to my right to look at the clock on the wall.

This roll, something so rudimentary in nature, produces a sensation of pain throughout my body that I was not expecting. My sheet wrapped legs feel as though they have been scraped with a knife from the inside out. This pain, this ache, radiated up my back and to my hands. I glance down at my hands and notice the dirt underneath my fingernails; tell-tale signs of work. Further down my fingers there was, dried blood, or so it appeared. I must have had an interesting night.
2:38. Goodness, I out did myself this time. The light filtering through my olive green curtains told me it wasn’t 2:38 A.M. Despite the pain, I pulled myself out of bed and swung my legs over the side. As my feet touched the hard, cold wood floor, it dawned on me that my feet were blistered. Looking down I could easily see the red inflamed skin bubbling off the side of my toes.

Jesus Christ, what had I been doing last night?
(running)

From whom?
(them)

Who are “they?”
(you
know)

BANG BANG BANG

The sound of this abuse on my door startled me to my feet. Who is paying me a visit with such a travesty of sound? Perhaps they know what I did last night. Perhaps they can fill in the blanks. I hobble to the steel grey wooden door; the brass painting has long since faded on the door knob. As I reach for the handle, and glimpse my face in the mirror next to the door, I realize why my eyes are matted. Like red tears, crusted blood is running from the corner of my eyes and has covered my face like Apache war paint.

At this second it dawns on me, what if the person pounding on my door can not only tell me why I look and feel this way, but is the reason why I am in such a state. I pause with my fingers on the cold, formerly brass door knob, but force of habit takes over and I cautiously begin to pull the door open…

What if it’s…?
(them)

Sometimes opening the door will answer all of your questions; other times, it will just lead to more…

Strange brew kill what’s inside of you
–Cream

LongStar

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