I put thoughts together while counting. one two three four five six seven . . .
I long for the closeness of old friends, and the contact of my greatest delusion. This is never what I wanted. I almost wish for my return. Where is the thought pattern that gave me the Void? All it does now is sort through my worst memories, turn them even more twisted and display them to me over and over again. I almost lust for the veldt in my veins; I want to reconnect with my Lion. I wouldn't even mind an occasional trip to the original Void: that place of pain where people are hands reaching for the promise of the sky to deliver manna upon their toothed knuckles. At least those images spawned poems worth reading. Now what I have is a set of bad memories lurking around my delusional thinking. I should have known from the beginning how letting someone all the way in would turn out. I want the sun rising again on my demesne. I don't want a collection of sob stories centered around a pair of dark eyes that never stays one color long enough to write a poem in praise. It doesn't matter anyway. None of this is real.
I can say things now that would never come out otherwise. Almost a year later, and I still feel, still smell, still long for the closeness of contact. The aether is back in my nostrils. I know how much to take for a lethal dose. I don't know the extent of my solitude, not yet anyway. My eyelids are a projection screen for all my worst memories. The dark is still sneaky. I walk off into the night down familiar paths to my bare feet. Eleven years is too long. My hands won't let me forget their struggle. I miss my friends and I miss the pealed verses never to be returned. Sometimes my imaginary red comfort is better than a green certainty. The only certainty left is more of this lonely grind.
My pain is self-inflicted; it's my gift to myself. Don't get too near. Spending time with me is like a death sentence, I remember hearing that for sure. Take me home. Count the weight of my crow feather of burden against the lack of water, food and sleep of people with real problems on the scales of justice. For my legion of readers you can count on one hand, know this: my torment is mine. None of you can bear it with me, so don't even try. What can I offer but pain? Just count
one two three four five six seven . . .