(temperate dissociation)
caarrp #37.1
Photo by FFH
I’ve become sickly, looking over my shoulder for a guy with a wide smile. Often strictly buisness clocked left and right left again, falling into brush. A prick from a rose bush as I regain my feet.
If I blink fast enough, my eyes roll back, I get 2 seconds of release, a thief behind my eyelids prys me open again and again, I pause to say, “ I want away from this light.”
I look around me and the watercolor bleeds along The seams of this scene.
“I wanna go back,” I say, but I dipped below the surface so the words become lost reverberations in this pool. They all kick, flip turn at the wall in a fluid stroke and I cradle my legs when their waves reach my face. I bubble back up slowly.
“It’s not really like much has changed~” says a bird on my shoulder, they follow me around and give unsolicited advice, I turn to see the blind spot to the right of my head once again, my breath condensates, blinds my vision in spite. I grapple with the straps of my backpack, pulling tighter, tightest, graphite and gridpaper hugs me back, limp + bound.
I awake again, cut to, the sun has risen, and strategically fragmented mirrors reflect soft sunbeams around my bedroom. If it’s just me here, why do I keep feeling you longing to be here too?
If I keep looking, this becomes symptoms of insanity, if I keep wondering, will I ostracize my existence into exile?
If I keep feeling, my head will get the best of me, I was never much for sustained security. I slip out of ties, binds, blankets, beds, much too quickly.
“Super power bandit star [redacted] keeps relevant the last 48 hours of reality,” reads the newspaper, a telling story. I sit down, my breakfast and coffee are served to me, I barely nod, fully engrossed in the story, as I start to sip a cup of joe, I enjoy my nuclear fantasy.
Maybe I had been disapointed, I thought I was known, to the capacity of me, but rather I was felt an ocean half full, or three quarters empty.
“You can really only know so much, I mean, humans are selfish creatures”, the bird continues. In the cemetary now, I sit by my grandmother, or a dusted up version. Then I say, “burn everything,” and look around. We seem to be in consensus.
I think of the bodies of people around me, and notice the dotted lines that have formed boundaries. “Who started planning these walls?” I look around, and I am alone.
I blink faster and finally close my eyes. I think, “sweet victory”, but the fire has begun lapping at the outer edges of my cerebral cortex. Grey matter chars lightly and the pink bits underneath churn, flip and twist. I think, I need water, I inspect the holes of the showerhead, propelling 47 streams at me, I open my eyes wider. This feeling sits stagnant under my skin, drips hit and fall across it, gliding to my toes, soles, I lazily turn the water to 73 degrees, luke cold.
I hate this discomfort, unknowing, willingfully ignorant, I want to see it believe it, say it, scream it, hold you, feel it, be, within what I want to know is possibly happening. Why can’t I tell what is happening, and I dont have the courage or desire to find out. Not from here, I am much too far away.
Photo by Rye