Sunday, March 29, 2009


There's nothing circular about it, no concentric circles or pupil-less eyes. It was just me and the ceiling, and frankly the ceiling did more staring than me.

And so I wake up and there are sounds. I enjoy noises plugged directly into my ears because there are sounds I miss when they just bounce off of the walls.

She was gone before I knew she was there. I don't even remember her name or her face or her anything. Just a smell.

A sweet smell. Warm, inviting, the birthday cake of an impoverished child. Fumes that shoot straight up into my nose, through the wrinkles in my brain, and out my head. Light a match and you will see the trail of flames, burn this whole bed and room to the ground. The futility of shaking the thoughts and cobwebs out of my mind, just spreading flames further, engulfing, embracing. I always wondered that the only difference between the two was digestion. Stomach acids, corroding bits and pieces into just more bits and pieces.

I wish I had asked. I wish I had said something. I wish she had talked to me, but she spoke less words than a mime.

And she still managed to lock me in an invisible box. Maybe I will suffocate, my lungs will give out, burst with little pops, and then nothing. Candles snuff out, the wick burns to black, the wax left intact. I'm still in the box, conscious or not.

And I suppose that's commitment.

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