Sick

I'm just getting sicker. Most nights greet me the same way. They don't beckon me to slumber, they beckon me outdoors, where I can be anything I want to be, and be silent. I can't deal with it tonight, so I resolved to sleep. I'm tired of dueling with this all day, and long into the night. Some parts of me want to end it; other parts of me want to vomit, probably because of the pills, but also for the pain. How stupid is that? That pain leaves no marks. I know it well.

I'm going to sit here and blog until I fall unconscious. Maybe some of that will drip through my fingers and onto this page. I get lonely at night. It seems like I'm furthest from love and peace, but closest to understanding. I write, and some respond: most don't. I take from this only a few conclusions: I'm alone and it should probably be that way. I wish I was a phoney. I could espouse unthinking leftist dribble, curse God, have a stupid haircut, and do anything that comes to mind. I would be accepted. Unfortunately, I believe. I can't stop. My belief is strong enough to chain me in this cage we made for me, but not enough to keep me from wrapping it around my neck from time to time.

What does it matter, then, that I'm so miserable? It doesn't. The only one that hurts with me is me. They're all parts of me; you should know that by now. Every keystroke brings me closer to sleep, and I can only see dark clouds and light fingers ahead. I took one of those combination pepsid and tums to keep it all down. I can feel it gurgle up my esophagus. Time is on my side.

Click click click. When I punch the keys, my fingers feel enlightened. I think weight is on me now. I can't see straight, and my choir sings. Little do they know that I'm going to forget them soon. I don't remember my dreams mostly. The few I do remember seem far away, even if they belong to last night.

Everything seems to begin like this: I write, and words show up. They do me no good. Since I started writing, I don't think I've made any sense. That elusive understanding is a questing beast; I am Palomides. Percival will find what he seeks; I will stay in the forest. I love Isoulde, but am loved in return only by the hunt for new words and new understanding. Some call me crazy; others call me friend. What they all share in common, I cannot approach. I prowl and growl through the grasslands of my Void. Who wants to come with me? It's an open invitation which will never be read.

I'm tired, but I'm still awake. I don't know how long it will take, but I know sleep will come. Can you laugh now? Am I cross-eyed? I'm green-eyed, despite my claims for amber. I'm the lion inside, but from without, I'm a monster. You've heard that before. If I'm not a monster, what would you call me in its place? I know I'm different in too many ways. I feel the blood race to the outer layers of this epidermis I call home. Home is where the heart is; that's a cliche. My heart is uncertain whether it wants to be on the left side of my chest, and pump blood, or the right side of my chest and pump aether.

I don't need your alcohol, or your cigarettes, or your falsehoods. I wish I was a phoney, maybe then I could be more like you. We have nothing in common. I'm a madman, and you're the ones who hang around this cage of pills and pain. Taunt me. Buy pencils with my likeness at the gift shop. Buy cheeseburgers with terrible pickles in the cafeteria. Come look at me.

I said look at me!

Do you hate what you see as much as I hate myself? Probably not. No one comes by anymore. I don't think they ever did.

I don't remember much from my childhood, largely it's a streak of pain at the wrong end of a fist or lash. I do remember a time when a couple of people I barely knew, I think their names were Marie and Hillary, invited me to a birthday party. I thought it was a horrible joke; I didn't want to be there just to be laughed at. The party was real; I lost a swimming race to a friend. I still think some of them laughed.

Watch me the next time you see me. I'll be the one with the stupid grin, stupid laugh, and a stupid hair cut. Look closely, if you can. You'll see a carefully crafted lie. The easiest way to see through it is to watch my footprints, or to watch me cross a carpet on a slick floor, linoleum, tile, or wood. I torque my ankle in an odd way that upsets the carpet and leaves a little ring behind on my footprint. It's there to cover the ankle injury, and my history of bad toenails. If you've never seen my feet, that's by design. I baby my right ankle; if you want to hurt me badly, just attack the ankle. Any fight would be over in about five seconds.

Until then, look at my cage. It's a beauty. I have Jacob wrestling with God courtesy of Gaugin, an artist so dead and old that he can't object to my use of his image. I've got well over two hundred opportunities for people to learn. I don't use much Italian, so my readers aren't lost like with Ezra Pound. I use words and paragraphs to trap me in here. Look, the words arrange themselves like bars, and the spaces between them mark the holes. It's like chicken wire made out of English, but made strong enough to pin a lion. Don't miss out on a good thing, I highly reccomend the gift shop. It's next to the feet buitl to remain hidden on the way to the cafeteria. I hear they're terrible cooks, but they also serve ice cream novelties of me: I'm the diet double caramel.