I can feel the scratches unravelling something of saddening depth, as I try to claw my way out of things I have exits for. What am I doing? I’m being loud, so you can listen, I’m being silent, and so you can taste the outlines of fine print when you search for prayers, and answers here without repetitive interruptions.
I’ve pressed my chest against the hallway, and there are the blaring sounds bouncing off the walls, straight into my ears, and it seems to hurt. They’re only and always echoes. I start to fiend for the source, I push my shoulders towards the wall and my abdomen forward, I raise myself and walk freely towards the door. I walk free. As if there is no magnet in my mind that’s attracting the metallic stiffness of fucked-up daydreams, which have been washing in to make a brain beach, which I can’t touch or reach, and don’t have the courage to explore or imagine. But in the end the source, a goddamn thought, seems pointless, and dishonest, so I settle down on the floor, I lean into the air and bow my forehead to the ground, I urge my blood to recede off my fingers, to make them numb as I cradle my nostrils, and fiddle with my shoelaces. The receding blood rushes intimately through my body, there’s a focus region, its large, and it hits me from angles, that I’m too attached to envision and I……..
“I pray to catch you whispering, I pray you catch me listening”
It’s a first-class, second-hand word to live by. And I do get high off the sound, and I mingle tears and soda, and I combine some informational spit into the medley as I began to stomach it. Sometimes I think I’m an addict of my prison, maybe because I built it, and my fascination towards its design is my self-absorption. It’s strange what I’m doing right now.
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