almost dead, line!

on deadline, don't know if i will make it, there is always an outpouring of writing, i sit down and do it all in one (in this case four) sittings, never is there a plan, there is just something i follow, which is the word that came before, everything is written and decided in the instant, i think authors need to capture man as he is, an imperfect being, editing himself only as a result of his ever changing world, never able to turn backwards and edit past only capable of editing in the moment, which is to say the present being, something he cannot prevent or escape. at this point adderall no longer works like it did, a separate story in itself on addiction, this song explains a bit of what i feel and is simultaneously motivating me.

I hadn’t wanted to go outside with him. It had nothing to do with the sex but I couldn’t avoid wondering, at least once or twice, whether he thought it did or was just comfortable assuming I was lazy, unmovable, exhausted, cut off. It was 7:30 am, in an hour my alarm would ruin an instant regardless if I was still awake or in the first stage of sleep. At this time, the only thing I wanted was to feel comfortable in the silence surrounding me, and that was why I hadn’t wrapped myself in the sheets, following him to watch the city begin to wake from my balcony. My head was on the radiator when he walked back in and lied down with me, our bodies contorted and obscure. I blamed the bed, how we shifted it in the night, the force of our bodies moving it out of the corner. My intention was to make an awkward joke, make light of us by calling attention to something so obvious yet insignificant at the same time. “Don’t worry, it can be fixed.” I found it unfortunate that he took me so literally; maybe if I could listen to my voice I would change what I say, perhaps drastically or even a subtle difference. With the curtains spread open, I stared backwards at the sky. Upside down, the color was no different than it had been at four am, pink ethereal, a color I couldn’t logically process. Wondering aloud why and how it produced such an effect, he said he didn’t have the answer. But I wasn’t looking for an answer, I just wanted to make sure he noticed it too, and then I wanted to talk about it, maybe make up a story, exaggerate what we feel. Instead I listened to his stories about pain and what his family thinks about the songs he makes. He brought up Joseph Campbell’s theory of pornography, something I would later appropriate for my fiction to mean all/any exterior visuals we desire. I commented on the stillness, the silence at this hour, as if the world had picked up and left us behind. He responded, an effort to show me perception’s deceit. At the time I thought I was memorizing what he said, but I hadn’t been able to. Something about dream and reality, the world and us. Where I get mixed up is what was paired together. And I am sure that was the whole point in the first place, but hey it was almost time to be woken up by my alarm and I can’t be expected to remember everything, even details containing the meaning, especially since I couldn’t feel much either. The next night I would be with someone else and the situation will have been entirely different, the effect another story in itself, which is how it is supposed to be.