November 7, 2011

The Darkness

Sometimes I forget myself. I tend to do it in the strangest of places. Like the bench at Union Station or the weight bench in my friend's garage. Little benchmarks of indiscretion scattered about the city. Reminders of pills popped, illicit baggies blowing in the wind and unprotected sex with women of questionable morals and vaginal hygiene.

I prayed to my gods in the hopes that they would let me play with their creations. Give me your deformed, your dismembered, your disingenuous monsters plotting to murder me.  I'll enjoy and devour them all. Nothing is too fucked up. Nothing is too scary. Nothing is too shocking. I want more, more...

And then shit gets dark. Really dark. Drunk as shit and can't find the light switch in the bathroom dark. I go too far. I do things I'd regret someday if I wasn't a sociopath. I start to get scared. People start looking strange and foreign and they start to treat me like I'm foreign and strange. This isn't my place anymore. I shouldn't be here. I really shouldn't be here. I start to run from the fear. I trip over a little girl on her way to school and I scream before she starts to cry. Then I start crying and frantically look for a place to hide.

I see a fellow traveler. She's wearing sunglasses and looks haggard. I ask her for help and she gives me a sip of her coffee. I spit it out. It tastes like shit. That diabetic demon bitch has fooled me for the last time. She's slowed me down and I can't stop running. I can't burn out. Always running... Running from everything. Running from nothing, running for nothing. I can't. I just can't.
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Image taken from: http://maggiemcneill.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/man-in-dark-alley.jpg

6 comments:

  1. Wondering what happened to you... I really like this. You paint some very dark and fantastic portraits.

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  2. I often forget myself and end up in a world that only exists in my head.
    I like this post. It's scarily refreshing and honest.

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  3. I trip over a little girl on her way to school and I scream before she starts to cry. Then I start crying and frantically look for a place to hide.

    I hope this is just literature. Fiction, I mean. Cause it's so much better if it (just) is.

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  4. ...missed reading you.

    ReplyDelete
  5. I've missed such posts from you.
    Intense. I want more.

    ReplyDelete

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