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the absinthe kicked something in my head. i don't know what it was. it's been a week and it hasn't gone away. it's not a depression; i don't feel devastated. i don't feel like it's the end of the world or like i'm the only real person on earth. it doesn't have to do with getting out of bed in the mornings. i just feel raw; my dermus has peeled away leaving me sensitive. i have to move slowly; i don't want to miss anything, not one moment. not this moment of leaf-shadows hopping from tile to tile in the voluptuous breeze and sun-warmed cement through a pink cotton skirt and sour-sugar clinging to the tips of my thumb and index finger, rolling between my tongue and the roof of my mouth and wisps of hair blowing, brushing against my cheek, and i can't record any of it, not really, but it doesn't matter this time. i don't have to. i'm not expected to. i don't expect myself to. and things scare me more; they seem more real to me. like ephedra, who's sometimes this horrible scary person that i don't want to be around and sometimes she's real and she feels and isn't trying to make herself so full of extraneous thoughts that she drowns the sensitive parts and is only a machine of self-gratification and gluttony. i don't think she knows how much it scares me. i will tell her when she comes back. |