Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Anada 187
.
. a n a d a 1 8 7 1 0 - 1 3 - 0 0
.
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . "Lament B"
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Effy
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
There was nothing more comfortable, nor more amusing, than sleeping
with a down bed spread and pillows. I smiled as I watched you. Peace
resting on your eyelids, the stray feather in your disheveled hair... I
wanted you to smile back at me again, without the influence of duplication,
worn edges, or misery burdened by sentiment. Last night, my dreams mocked
my reasons, throwing trash into my bed; and the voice that spoke to me?
Thick with sarcasm, thin with sincerity. Seemed to think it was almost
ridiculous that I was still hanging on.
I put your picture down. We're not quite so warm anymore; it's
getting cold again. The trees are again being painted with a brush of
season's cold-blooded hand. Season has found his reds, browns, oranges, and
blacks. Season is painting everything a deep, melancholy color. Season is
giving me reminders of memories to come back, tenfold.
When does the revelation come? You don't have to wipe your own tears
if you only cry in the shower. In fact, you don't have to dry your own
tears if you never cry at all. A woman was concerned about me; she inquired
to know why I had been consistently lethargic and unhappy for months. She
may as well have snapped her fingers and said hocus pocus, because I had no
time to find a shower or sink or even a bucket of piss to dunk my head in.
I cried. I half-cried. And when I finally got out of there, I let myself
cry for nothing other than the sake of release. I know that if I can
continue this, in the end it might be worth it, if I find the outcome I
seek. If not... what then? How much time will I waste in the "best" time
of my life? Will there be a best time, and has there been? Agonized
thoughts that I am embarassed to think are gathering, like clouds, blotting
out who I used to be.
So much of me understands how you must feel. But there is a small
fraction missing here; and it is this that I am most afraid of. Is this
fraction for real, and if so, is it temporary, or is it growing? Do you
even know? Do you understand that I don't think you love me as much as I
think you do? Do you know that it's not your fault, except for the fact
that you created it out of necessity? I wish you would tell me what you
know, because after eons of speculation, I still feel like I know nothing.
It's as if my mind is a swamp, and I'm too disgusted by my surroundings to
move, even if the quicksand would let me keep from sinking for half a
second.
Drugs have had a way of speaking to me of the worst things possible,
at the most inconvenient times. There was a point when I realized I hadn't
thought, spoken, acted, or worked with a clear head in ages. This
realization, up till now, has induced no change in myself however. But I
have to change. I want to change. I need to change, for my sake, for
yours, and for the sake of those around me that seem to be slipping through
my fingers due to my own apathy. I don't like who I've become. I like who
I was, and where is she? I have this deep, probably irrational but
nevertheless possible fear that she's not gone, but buried so deep in the
mud that I am going to have to dig my own grave to find her, if she's even
there. She was always one for challenges, though.
Maybe we've still got that left.
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. anada 187 by Effy (c)2000 anada e'zine .
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
