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My shadow prison has disappeared. The room is bathed in light. Light was never a friend on my
better days, why would it decide to start now. The morning's pace is slow as a coma patient's
heart rate. I may get better conversation from said patient. Isn't there a hospital nearby?
She’s in the shower now. I’m still laying on the floor, now staring at the ceiling. The excitement of
a floor fades like the shadows fleeing the morning. Alone, I'm left to my own devices and thoughts.
I ask myself questions like, "What was I thinking?" and "What did you really hope to get out of this
experience?" or even "Are you done with all this now?". I can only imagine what she’s thinking
right now. “He’s still here. Will he remember what he said last night? Why the fuck do all the guys
I meet have to be so immature and fucked in the head?!” Okay, so that’s a selfish projection of
what I think she’d be thinking. I really don’t know. She could be thinking of toast and whether she
has butter in the fridge. I really don't know anything.
I believe that's a theme here. I don't know why I planned this whole weekend. I don't know why I
rushed-ly bought tickets to a town I passionately hate (and only partly because she lives here). I
don't know what I had hoped to gain from putting myself within what I knew would be three
shades of hell. Then again, at least in hell, you know where you stand. Here in my head, where I
don't know the sky from drowning, personal torment comes in waves. Suffocating torrents with a
strong undertow to keep you down and then a soft splash to tease you with hope of not needing
another shot of liquor. Sometimes, just sometimes, I can forget. In the end, I don't have the
answers to any of my important questions. Why I needed to be here. Why I needed to see her.
Why I needed to hurt myself again. How does that Nine Inch Nails song go again?
Its funny, in my line of work, I am usually full of answers, fixes and the such. I usually know what
to do or can figure it out. I'm amused by the dichotomy of my situations: I am as strong as a
boulder in the storm but when she is added in mind or person, I'm as weak as a grain of sand
against a wave. She's an anchor on my ankle in a deep, deep ocean. Without the extra pull, I could
swim but I'm stinking too fast to loosen its grip.In my job, I can be the authority, able to change
things....put an end to the problems. In my head, I'm a sheet of glass with a ten pound weight
waiting for pressure to crack me. Heh. I guess we all have our kryptonite...
Where was I, anyways? Oh, yeah, reality. Ugh. Is "Ugh" really a word? Okay, okay, I'm stalling.
She got out of the shower five minutes ago. She walks in dressed and avoiding my eyes. I'm sitting
up on the floor with a face. I know I've got a face going. Y'know the kind I'm talking about. The
face of someone who's trying to think of something to break the ice after an evening like THAT and
can only blurt out a "G'mornin'." What was I supposed to say? .....Exactly! I'd like to see you come
up with something better.
The rest of the morning goes on as if rehearsed. The answers to the point and the questions
avoiding last nights admissions. We eat breakfast. We run an errand or two. We bide the time
almost as if we weren't there. I wanted to be a ghost in it all. But part of me wanted to ....I guess
savor -ya, savor is the right word- the time in her air. Seeing her. Smelling her. Just feeling the
energy she puts off. Ok, that sounds stalker-esque but to be honest, this is probably the last time I
put myself through this again. I really can't take the masochism anymore and I really should push to
get over her. Bullet in my brain. Removing it would kill but keeping it in makes me less than I was.
According to my personal rules, a man can't compare himself to anyone other than past versions of
himself. By my book, this flaw is holding me back. I really should take the risk and ask for help
with surgery.
better days, why would it decide to start now. The morning's pace is slow as a coma patient's
heart rate. I may get better conversation from said patient. Isn't there a hospital nearby?
She’s in the shower now. I’m still laying on the floor, now staring at the ceiling. The excitement of
a floor fades like the shadows fleeing the morning. Alone, I'm left to my own devices and thoughts.
I ask myself questions like, "What was I thinking?" and "What did you really hope to get out of this
experience?" or even "Are you done with all this now?". I can only imagine what she’s thinking
right now. “He’s still here. Will he remember what he said last night? Why the fuck do all the guys
I meet have to be so immature and fucked in the head?!” Okay, so that’s a selfish projection of
what I think she’d be thinking. I really don’t know. She could be thinking of toast and whether she
has butter in the fridge. I really don't know anything.
I believe that's a theme here. I don't know why I planned this whole weekend. I don't know why I
rushed-ly bought tickets to a town I passionately hate (and only partly because she lives here). I
don't know what I had hoped to gain from putting myself within what I knew would be three
shades of hell. Then again, at least in hell, you know where you stand. Here in my head, where I
don't know the sky from drowning, personal torment comes in waves. Suffocating torrents with a
strong undertow to keep you down and then a soft splash to tease you with hope of not needing
another shot of liquor. Sometimes, just sometimes, I can forget. In the end, I don't have the
answers to any of my important questions. Why I needed to be here. Why I needed to see her.
Why I needed to hurt myself again. How does that Nine Inch Nails song go again?
Its funny, in my line of work, I am usually full of answers, fixes and the such. I usually know what
to do or can figure it out. I'm amused by the dichotomy of my situations: I am as strong as a
boulder in the storm but when she is added in mind or person, I'm as weak as a grain of sand
against a wave. She's an anchor on my ankle in a deep, deep ocean. Without the extra pull, I could
swim but I'm stinking too fast to loosen its grip.In my job, I can be the authority, able to change
things....put an end to the problems. In my head, I'm a sheet of glass with a ten pound weight
waiting for pressure to crack me. Heh. I guess we all have our kryptonite...
Where was I, anyways? Oh, yeah, reality. Ugh. Is "Ugh" really a word? Okay, okay, I'm stalling.
She got out of the shower five minutes ago. She walks in dressed and avoiding my eyes. I'm sitting
up on the floor with a face. I know I've got a face going. Y'know the kind I'm talking about. The
face of someone who's trying to think of something to break the ice after an evening like THAT and
can only blurt out a "G'mornin'." What was I supposed to say? .....Exactly! I'd like to see you come
up with something better.
The rest of the morning goes on as if rehearsed. The answers to the point and the questions
avoiding last nights admissions. We eat breakfast. We run an errand or two. We bide the time
almost as if we weren't there. I wanted to be a ghost in it all. But part of me wanted to ....I guess
savor -ya, savor is the right word- the time in her air. Seeing her. Smelling her. Just feeling the
energy she puts off. Ok, that sounds stalker-esque but to be honest, this is probably the last time I
put myself through this again. I really can't take the masochism anymore and I really should push to
get over her. Bullet in my brain. Removing it would kill but keeping it in makes me less than I was.
According to my personal rules, a man can't compare himself to anyone other than past versions of
himself. By my book, this flaw is holding me back. I really should take the risk and ask for help
with surgery.
