Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Notes on Winter.

I will never find rest when I need it most. A weary 6 am, my eyes glassy and skin scrawling. Cramps in my ankles and wrists tonight, perhaps due to our fourteen-hour return trip today. Oh that the fault would've ruptured under the weight of our passions and swallowed us, and I could finally get some sleep.

No time to visit sacred souls in Memphis, so I saw her in passing, shrouded by dense fog from the river and looking smeared through our filthy windshield.

Propelled by some smoldering resentment, by a race against the final exhausted crash we both felt looming in our bloodshot rearview horizons, and by sheer idiot joy. Propelled, propelled, folded like grasshoppers into a hazy little car careening against snowdrifts and levees and other large, looming shapeless things that slink along the shoulders of the Interstate Delirium. Finally

home, to hide in shadows, push piles of shit around the floor of my room like a nearsighted beetle. My candles burn at all ends, my fingernails are gnawed to the quick. I am tired enough to cry, but something is keeping my bones to twitch with my eyelids and the flicker of my dulled mind. I feel as if a weight is pressing between my shoulders, or maybe as if a weight that had been there all along had suddenly been lifted and I'm reeling, disoriented. What to do next. Cut my hair. Taunt winter's chill in my skull and heart. I need warmth, and I want it to feel deserved. I'm not sure I've felt that in a long while.

I'm running out of chances as quickly as new ones present themselves. I'd just as soon be a mute for the rest of the winter, which has so suddenly gutted me and sucked my marrow and filled my skin back up with sleet. I hate tonight, but I've a feeling that I'll wish it had lasted a few nights longer come morning. Time and fate have been fucking with me in this manner these past few days.

Bedtime: Don't wanna talk to nobody. My handwriting looks startlingly different. I suppose change begins somewhere.

No, there is no Change. There is only Becoming.

Rough. Rough is how I feel.

6:xx am, HP, 2-5-11, fucking see the sun's glow

No comments: