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14.

A eulogy for the walking dead.  The back story to a manifesto for loners. To read during or after the send off.

It’s like I’m rolling,  this constant turning. A cursive continuous whirlwind,  a deadly contiguous feeling of feeling like a deadly thing. I have a strong yearning for knowing. Knowing the what,  the why,  the when the things that leave empty spaces leave me feeling heavy. Dire says these days it’s like I’m falling, im sleeping. I hold my breath like school boy smoking anxious to exhale. Diaphragm concave, pupils dilated, feelings diluted, spirit dehydrated. An unending  myth of an Absurd reality, Sisyphus proved it. Underworld tragedy, depression, blurred vision and exile. Mother says maybe it’s better if I come home. When you pick up the phone  to call a loved one, try to sound less broken than the communication line. Count to 5 before you stop laughing then respond. Lie,  make an excuse,  ask about them instead then respond. Laugh again,  a little bit more convincing this time. Remember the weather,  talk about how cold it is. Sigh.  Then respond. It really doesn’t matter,  melt into the matress, morning migraines. Panic attack, pause being sad, go crazy.  Just respond.

Say something before you go cold. How would your suicide note go?  Mr Happy would be happy to paint you a gift for the road.  After that day at protest.  Big buildings make me anxious. Crowds of people make me sad. Being black is a burning tire. My eyes burn and I’m tired. My eyes are the burning tire. Blood is not just blood anymore. Blood is the residue left by depression when it couldn’t chew up the rest of you. The colour red reminds me of menstruation.  Of eyes. Of Vincent Van Gogh. Van Gogh’s room.  My room.  These curtains. The air here. Bruise.  Cough. Itch.  Slip. Soap. The 7th floor.  Elevator doors.  All walls.

Suppose I didn’t go to the talk.  Suppose I missed the test or I forgot my paintbrushes.  Suppose this poem is not just a metaphor.  Suppose we all stayed at home and told the truth about it.

I like the boy from the Orbit. I like meals that make me happy. The boy from the Orbit buys me happy meals. I like it when I’m happy. But sometimes I feel sad. How do you feel right now. They say you’ve also been sleeping. What do you dream of when you’re not here? Starry night is the cover art for the insomniacs life. The people who  get it.  Who got it.  Then broke with all that light. Sorry the music was too loud. Sorry for tiny smoking areas. Sorry i couldnt get out of bed. Sorry the rock is going to roll back down. Sorry we falling.  Sorry we cracking.  Sorry we mending.  Sorry we need holding. Sorry it wasn’t a bad dream. Sometimes it’s like I’m jumping,  in and out of dreams. I curl and convulse into the seams.  Converge with my self.  I get lost inside my dreams. The other day i was running and running and running out of breath to keep dreaming.  Day is not as it seems.  Something Is distorting the image. Everyone is morphing into the people from the inside.  My dreams are projections of daytime.  Conscious nightmares reflecting at daytime.

If we meet again sometime. Remind me of how much I tried before it all just started floating. Today I’m reporting from a room I once feel asleep in as a child.  A single memory of the lion and the lioness cub.  The room is warm and cosy and daddy and music.  I’m sleeping.  Communication line buried.  Dreams deadly. Daddy buried.  Feelings floating.  Father fading.  Body brother hugging me.  Strangers starring.  Gulps of pain swallowing.  Self mutating. I just think it’s twisted. I think it’s really twisted.

The plot twist of this story is that our maker is also depressed. The plot twist of this story is a that you are also depressed.

So… try to act normal for now.  Everyone is watching.

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