Restless

 Laying in bed, in the dark. I stayed up too late.

Poison of modernity rattling around in my skull. Air conditioner fan humming along in the window. 

A week had passed in a haze and I thought I was going to move easily through it. I thought, I thought.

To hell with it. Say it.

I roll over and pick up my phone. The glare stuns for a moment and I squint, open the app. Open the message. Type.

"This is all a real bummer."

I hesitate for a moment, and decide to just say it. Send. What does it matter now? Might as well.

I don't wait for a response. I roll over and try to sleep. Waves of blacker than black sweep across my vision, a swallowing void. Intricately detailed images grow and change inside it. Beyond realistic. More than that. A hand. A face. Faces. Melting and gnashing. Every night. Faces and teeth and melting and gnashing. I usually forget by the morning, but each night I am reminded and I know that I am falling asleep.

The recognition of that pulls me back for a moment and I'll have to repeat the whole process, again and again. I think about the message and the last week and a handful of small moments. A knot under my ribs. I want to look for a response but I don't. I had my moment of weakness and now I have to sleep. 

I shift uncomfortably to my other side. Nothing feels right. A crawling through my body. My brain racing and fighting itself. My fucking feet are hot under the blankets. I kick them off.

Wish it was Friday so I could stay awake and pace the house. Wish it was months ago so I could keep myself in line. Wish it was years ago. Wish it was over. Wish it never began. Fill a bowl with water and fucking scry about it. What happens next?

"Oh my god, shut up," I whisper into the dark. 

Lie on my back, stare toward the ceiling. The room only barely illuminated by the small green light on the air conditioner. My room. This box. This casket. Bare walls and cold and dark. Stare toward the ceiling. 

Unsend it.

Leave it.

Unsend it.

Leave it.

It didn't have to be a cold situation. It felt cold. Unsending would reinforce that, but leaving it would expose me. 

Shift again on the mattress. 

I consider how I'll feel about it in the morning. In the daylight. How I've felt in the past in similar situations and I think; 

It's not too much. It's honest. Leave it.

I leave it. I roll again to my side, facing the wall and try to close my eyes. Wait for the blacker than black. Wait for the gnashing and melting. Wait to never feel. Eventually they all must have come for me, because then; morning.

Again and again.

Don't Do Dumb Shit

 "Don't do dumb shit." Send.

And that's that.

Slip my phone into my back pocket and walk to the window. The grey November world. Bursts of orange. Soon nothing. A man across the street waves at a boy coming up the sidewalk and the boy waves back. I watch and absorb the moment. I imagine the love. The family. The connection. I am happy for them. I try to be, anyway.

I have nothing to say about it. I decide to say nothing about it. Let it be.

I was hungry but I'm not now. I am filled with gravel. Weight. Disappointment.  

Back porch. Pantry door. Cat room. Apples all over the ground. 

I try to shake it all out of my mind. It doesn't work. 

A mattress in the cold. A spider trapped in a birdhouse. A comforter in the grass.

They flood in. All I can do is wade through it. 

I pace my living room a few times, hoping I find my destination on the way. I don't. I'm nervous to sit. If I sit I'll think and that's the last goddamned thing I should do. Pace. Into the kitchen. Into the living room. The office, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room and on and on. I could already feel structures and wire frames building around it all. Building a larger explanation. A stronger narrative. 

Because of this...

That makes sense if...

This is a lie...

But I know it doesn't matter. It's out of my hands. I did what I could. I try to tear the narratives down. They aren't real. Even if I'm right, they don't matter. They only exist in me. They only affect me. 

I have a show later. I can focus on that. 

Knee deep in the creek. Torn out pages of music books. Hoverflys.

I go to my office, sit, and pick up my guitar. Capo 4, Asus4, C, E minor. Over and over. I sing the song. That spiteful jab. That leftover. That scar. I won't write about this though. I have nothing to say. I decide to say nothing.

The hours pass and soon I will have to leave and sing and smile but for a long time I sit in the dark office and let it wash over me. Let it come and soon it will pass. 

Unbroken shells among the rocks. Dead arm. Fermented lemon.

Let it come, and soon it will pass.

Soon it will pass.

 It will pass.

 

It will.