My body collapsed into a ball rolling downhill, fast motion, to reach the bottom, and found myself awake in a familiar cubical, like dough on the rise my figure burst out the top, out the doorway, spilling me into the hallway, neighbors, floor, spread out until I could no more.
From my cube I hear the clapping of retirement congratulations. Wow. Good job. You did it. That no one has ever sought me should explain enough about my impact. Perhaps I am forgotten glue, pasty, hardening on to flake off with each sift of the world.
Inside my jaw-line the melting sensation begins to root against my salivary glands. Wet mouth will be dry within hours. This type of thinking, this stoned existence, is slower than I’m used to. It’s putting me on your level and I don’t like it at all. My mind is complicated and fast. I should be, every second of my existence, writing prose or poetry. This would help me to accomplish my dreams. I am on autopilot straight forward through each day. When I write my fears combine with reality and the end result is sugary. I hope the bitter smell within my breath is nothing more than a cavity, that I can’t really smell my own internal rot.
My stomach is tight with knots and pain. Jaundice adults pulsating through traffic from one project to the next, organizing the faintest song. Repressing any sense of orientation, I’ve entered grander skins than the ones we fight under traffic light, plenty of green for me. I take them all with ease and when I’m stopped I simply look about and sigh at the gaudy scenery, the patterns we’ve scarred into the earth’s crust. It’s like we carved our own foundations and forced our souls into global warming or shift platonics. I wish all history so precursory.
There was a false journalist who thought he had his hook with in my tenderness, but alas, the truth became I was in fact the one doing the hooking. He then slaughtered his family and went to prison, at which he was raped incessantly, but continued to cry over the woman who’d barged into the foundation of his weak existence with a tenfold strength meant to knock his nuts off worth wit, but even without nuts the man retains his genetic inferior brain.
I have treats for demons, favorably.
Yes, a Mutilated family.
Everything is moving along splendidly. Yesterday my morning meeting was canceled, today my afternoon meeting, same impeccable results. Here I sit approaching an oblivion and I can’t seem to get this ringing out of my ear.
Fishing for answers, they called it a bobber, the float attached to the hook, which was supposed to be him but was me. I was clearly the better option for hanging bait. I feel guilt, shame, persistently. What is the point of going through all this really? It’s like they left you alone in a crowded room with spies in every eye. The lesson. You can’t even type, you stupid bitch. I swear I had a stroke once and didn’t report it. I wonder how long I’ll live and I fear it’s endlessly, a vampire, blood sucking the theory. Maybe that’s why I’m jaundice, there’s not enough blood in my system from my sacrifices. My holy little morsels, all the lives I’ve destroyed. Mhm.
I want to leave. I always do. There is never a moment in which I’m not considering it. I barely stand it some days. It’s itching. It’s a habit. It’s unstoppable. I either do it or bear through it. The exhaustion finds me quick when I bear it. I sleep in my head behind my open eyes and almost crash my car like two or three times. A highlighter. A Chapstick, a coffee cup and an ID badge. Dust. Paper. Magnet. Stamps. Notepad. Desk containments. Exit swiftly.
I don’t think that I can keep faking this for much longer. I get up. I make it too and fro. I will explain nothing and everything. I died and then I came back to life. I sprung from the heated fires of hell into earth and looked for heaven and tried to fly but found myself unable to get high.
Fall down to the earth and you’re an angel forever, generally speaking but what lie’s the gates of heaven keep. No one will ever really know. The great and eventual blackness is why hell is more likely for anyone who roams their feet across the planet earth and then ceases to exist.
I hear echoes in the canyon. I hear a vague explanation of the true colors of the sky and within the clicking sound of the keys the writing process is taking place but the reality is that we cannot escape anything at all. Repeated sounds. Repeated motions. Repeated theory, repeated ending, repeated beginning. I can’t believe in anything anymore. I’m ready to let it all go.
Lots of typos. The feeling isn’t right. I think something is wrong. I can’t get my fingers on the keys. I’m weak. Tired. Pressured. Unsure. Lost. Feeling like what’s the point. Everything is like a blur. A loser.
I don’t even know what any of this means. It’s all fucked up. There is nothing correct about the data that you are looking at. It’s a mess. This is the definition of the Healthcare Administration.
I’m a coo-coo clock like rotunda with my sounds looping crazier than I look. How dare you excite me on my time? You see my hands upon my face and can’t help but think I’ve misplaced myself. Misinformed as to what the ticking seconds mean, silence holds no power until what happens next, when my sound alarms all the faces looking at me, yours and the rest.
I don’t want to be like you. I snake my way through everything.
How exactly right. How exactly wrong. I’m zero and open none. I’ve lied to everyone including you. There isn’t passion in that. Here is survival, intimate. I crossed a few hairs then retreated. If you were to know the ending what difference would it make? I’m hopeful and easy.
I asked you to shut up but you didn’t listen. I reminded you that I, in fact, was the one holding the key to the cage lock and that if you wanted your phone back you’d have to shut the fuck up.
Stop talking like that. I can’t stand it when you speak that way, was your reply. You never listen and so I said goodbye. There is millions of dollars on the line in relation to the few hundred insignificant lives.
I walked out the door and down off the porch until I reached the sidewalk and from there I kept going.
I’ll never understand why you wouldn’t ever listen to me. I decided to make a loop around the block and that if I made it around and you hadn’t come out the house screaming and looking for me I might walk back in and repeat what I mean to you. This way maybe my point will be made.
I was sorely well behaved until a few hours ago. I knew exactly how to make sure that you would react the way that you do.
Finally I punched Lionel in the face. It felt really good. I decided this morning when I woke up that today would be the day I would do it. Before I left the house I took one look back at you still asleep in bed. I thought my god if this goes wrong I might miss your sleepy headed turnovers in the morning.
Sending you the text was well thought through. What I didn’t know was that Lionel decided that he wasn’t going to deal with my bullshit if I quit. The punch surprised him more than me.
I can’t get past knowing that I have ruined everything. How? I let myself make the choice. I stood in its face and I said sure yes, I’ll take war instead of peace. What is the reason why? The cause is only me and I’m the only one who can explain but the words are beyond refrained. They rarely speak. They barely string together anything at all. I say I don’t know. I say I couldn’t more and more. I say no. I say so. I say it’s bad. Persuasion is beyond the conscious thought. I can’t help anything anymore. Them. They wait for it. Moments. I tore apart the statement of departure. I tore apart the contract before it was bound. I stood up from my chair and said get me out of here to myself. That’s the choice I made. Now I’m trying to get back into your arms because I am so very afraid. Scared and always. Panic and dismay. Shock and paled. There is no more try, I cannot try. I will however keep pace.
I did all of life wrong and should have a lot of money to support a princess life, this is ideal, but I do not and here I sweat away.