Sunday. 5th. of. September. 2021
There’s something awfully curious about this state in which I find myself. A head full of clouds and flashes of lightning which never clash with their thunder. The light in my mind shines off the disco ball and sends glittering shafts bouncing off of every synapse.
I’m mesmerised by everything, or rather I have no attention to give so when my vacant head gets held by something, there’s no fight in me to wrest myself from its grasp. The gross beauty is in everything, it’s covered with moss and gives off a sepulchral mist, like grass in a glade untouched by human presence for thousands of years. That ancient mist rises off of all things and roams the air for no reason. Wandering around in a fever of sorts, I’m contagious with emptiness. Concentric circles in every shadow look back at me like the projection of eyes. I’m being watched by blinding lights and their glare is not a pleasant one. They look at me darkly and scorn. What did I ever do to them?
My laptop is freaking out, every word I type seems to take a moment or two before it finally decides to splash onto the pixel hell of my screen. Either that or this fever is wringing the wires inside my head, ripping the zapping snakes off the circuit boards off of which they feed.
Is it better now? Yes, it is. The words appear the moment my fingers slam the keys.
Are we back on track? With an 8-track mind, I never know where I got off and where I’m going to.
I’m rolled into my blankets, sweating out this horrible illness, transferring this hideous feeling into my sheets, which will be tumbled around in the washing machine and then all that’ll remain of this illness is the quickly fading memory. Before I ended up in this convalescing cocoon, I hurled myself into a steaming hot shower. The vapours danced around my eyes, rising up against the pull of gravity and going on their own little journey, like the ancient mist, filling the small cubicle with a dense shroud of lightness. That thin boundary which keeps my vital organs from a traumatising public display swiftly melted into the haze and I was lost in a place where no matter which direction I went, I was safe. So long as I keep cranking up the water temperature and that no other responsibility pulls me out of this cubicle, I’m exactly where I should be. Don’t think about the water bill, that is frivolous thinking under such indulgent pleasure. It’s like thinking how many condoms you’ll have left after you make love.
How long can I stay in this shower until all the hot water in the world runs out. I’m quite sure that my skin will be washed right off my bones long before that happens, which gives me a certain sense of comfort.
My nose is leaking now, it has been all day but now the flow of clear cerebral spinal fluid has become aggressive. Like teardrops out of my nostril they collect onto the bridge of my lip. My girlfriend keeps telling me to blow my nose rather than sniff them back in but old habits die hard. It’s on occasions like these that I will go out and buy a box of velvety tissues. That is what tissue boxes were made for. The sight of someone blowing their nose using tissue from a roll of toilet paper next to them is a very sorry one. It reeks of plebian. But my cash flow isn’t too wide at the moment, because I refuse to spend money, for it means nothing. I’m the richest man who owns nothing. And here I am, becoming the sorry sight that I spit on, blowing my nose using toilet paper. Compared to those scented sheets of cloudy fibre, these ones are like sandpaper. My my how they fall from grace.
Temperatures in this room are rising. I’m beginning to pour sweat. The metamorphosis has begun. Even the daintiest draught of air sends tingling shivers of piercing cold down my spine like a high-tension metal chord being twanged. Boil the bastard out of me. Turn the body into an inhospitable place and force it to seek lodgings someplace else.
A key is turning in the lock, either that’s my girlfriend returning from work or…
Comments