The words I speak are coming out of my mouth as a physical entity. Every sentence is slapping down onto the floor like alphabet spaghetti, tomato juice and all. She doesn’t seem to alarmed by all this, she’s simply nodding her head as I talk about love, as I talk about life, and as I talk about the latest television show, the one with all the blood and gore. She nods as I let it all out, with no intention of stopping me. And when I’m done, and the spaghetti is starting to stink, she cleans it all up and throws the crunched up tissue of words into a nearby bin. I see some leftover words scattered across the floor. Passion and John Goodman. When did they connect?
I ask someone later about it all, and he just shrugs as the words continue to spill.
‘It’s all just spam, man.’
And I look to the floor at my words once more. I tried to piece them all together, but he was right.
It’s all just spam, man.
I’ll draw it on the back of this receipt to show you what I mean. On the left is me, and on the right is you. We’re pretty close together, right?
Right, we are, if we had hands they’d probably be tangled.
Now above my head is my mind. It’s right there, that scribble.
Now your scribble, your mind… it’s all the way over there.
Yes, your body might be here, but your thoughts are far away.
They are right here, inside here, right now.
But they aren’t. They really aren’t.
I don’t know what to say.
And now you know why.
In 3 seconds he blinked
In 3 minutes he yawns
In 3 hours he realises he’s been here before
In 3 days he leaves his home
In 3 weeks he finds his phone
In 3 months he loses it all
In 3 years he finds a new job
In 3 decades he lives for his dreams
In 3 centuries he is referred to as ‘the general public’
In 3 millennia no one knows
I lie on my bed naked as I watch TV.
It’s okay, nobody’s watching.
I’m watching something grotty, it’s better than anything soppy.
It’s okay, nobody is watching me watching this.
Though as the action fades to black I see my own reflection.
Watching me watching this watching that naked.
And I look at my reflection and pull the covers over.
I look at my reflection and throw the remote over.
But there I am, staring right back at me.
And the only thing I long for.
Is a reflection-free TV.
is the absence of one.
Or when your arms are on the floor along with your intestines, because boy, you tried to carry that weight.
Whichever works for you.
I miss tripping over all those clothes piles
I miss untangled that mess of wires
I miss moving the plastic container boxes to get to my books
I miss holding my body against the door to keep it open
I miss climbing over a body to get to the shower
All that clutter, I miss it so.
What felt soft now feels numb
What felt hard now feels numb
What felt cold now feels numb
What felt warm now feels numb
What felt worthwhile now feels numb
These fingers of mine can only feel Cortopin, itches, and cuts.
It’s the new sensation, and I’m quick to the touch.