I awake far less wakeful. Far less. My night is drowned. I look up from the sleep floor to the radiance of plain tiredness. Tiredness that could be settled by rest, that would be reasoned with- appeased by dreaming. I would worship such tiredness, in it I would bask & bathe. There is another skeleton inside my skeleton, and it burns. There is another flesh wrapping my flesh, and it beats- pulses- pain. My sleep is tipped and poured away from me, now laced with some odd poison. 'What you suffer is not real. What you suffer is symptomatic of Modern Times; it is television; it is celebrity; it is the death of the honey bee. What you suffer could be overcome if only you would overcome it.' As though philosophy were only the realm of philosophers. As though wonder and the hurt it brings are only the hungover lanes of the academy. Like my sleep, I tipped and poured my self away from me. You first, You first. No, after you! I insist. And fell, with paper-cut hands, on the floor of the chilly basement- the fresh fluorescent light giving vibrancy to the pooling blood. The shaking was immense. The deception was so small. Just- 'No, i'm fine!' and then, home- to collapse, and salted horror, twisted sheets, a monster in the mirror. Weekends for repair. Walk the woods- tipping and pouring myself away. Camera. Collects. The edge of my vision darkening. The beginning of difficult decisions. The first requests for help. Rejected. Still, framing, it, with, humour, good, good, good. Then the long swoon into absolute darkness- a new, other, night... without stars, moon, or desire. I would never have believed such flatness possible.
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