Hurry up please, it’s time

(Another creative piece by yours truly)

We spoke again and again, I tried to sleep it off but then, all of a sudden, it had been five days. When I was high I felt euphoria like I had never felt before, and I thought about how I wasn’t thinking of you. You told me about how you had finally realised that my stories were kind of beautiful, but it seemed too little too late at that point. Now I let my phone fizzle out so that I won’t bother you again. I know I am upsetting everyone. When I say I have been having dreams that exceed the day what I mean is this: I sleep for hours on top of what comes naturally and start having hyper real visions in which you are often around. It’s not that I particularly enjoy having this happen to me, but when I wake up and I have already scraped half of my face off to prove a point, the point is less in need of proving than it was when I went to bed the night before. I know I talk shit. When I have weeks like this I don’t talk at all because poison spews out like acid vomit and it doesn’t really care who it hits (but we all know who it hits hardest). I have so much going on, you know? Gosh, I’m such a busy minded person, if only I had some talent, something graspable that I could funnel it all into. At least I know for absolute certain that I will never be able to funnel it into him again. When I hear really beautiful harmonies in folk music it makes me want to cry because I feel so far away from being able to make anything seem so joined up as those wide gaps between notes that find some kind of familiarity. I remember the first time I took uppers and listened to folk music my heartbreak took a backseat, and I was free.

I know I gagged when I saw what we’d made together. It wasn’t good to the eye. It wasn’t arty or poetic. You wouldn’t have liked it. I would have loved to see you make it into something post-modern but the fact of the matter is that it was post-my understanding. It signalled an end to the entire poetic nuance I have attributed to everything since I was 16. The fact of the matter is the things I loved the best ended up dead and buried, and me wishing that were just a figure of speech is a monstrosity and a banality I can’t get my head around. Love it or loath it, my obsession with death is borne of a reality you didn’t want a part of. Having said that, I still think of mini-golf and glazed donuts in a way that made Lot’s wife turn into salt. I think of how raw I still am, and how much I still love you, and I feel like I could sleep for the first time in a week.

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