I’ve been yawning uncontrollably for the past two hours, and my eyelids are heavy. Textbook symptoms of being sleepy. I should sleep.
Then again, what’s the fun in doing what you’re supposed to?
My head’s been spinning a little bit. Tara told me today that my eyes are red, I told her it’s because I’ve been rubbing them too much. I haven’t told her about the crying, I haven’t told anyone about the crying, mainly because I’m not sure why I’m crying. In the beginning I was pretty sure they were just those tears that well up when you yawn too much, but then I felt it. That terrible pull in my tummy, as if something just dragged my heart all the way down to my stomach, and that emptiness in my chest. Then I yawned once more, and that turned into a sob real quick. One moment my mouth was wide open, like that cave where we spent our weekend when my father took us camping and Scott Brown spilled his drink all over my favourite shorts, next moment I was hiccupping and coughing as if my breath was reluctant to leave my throat. I was crying. I’m not sure why I’ve been crying.
When I was eight, the world turned upside down; my legs were wrapped around the highest bar of the monkey bars and my hands were free falling as if revolting against the sockets that held (and continue to hold, to this day) them. The blood inside my head was rushing, as if late for its rendezvous with gravity.
The world is spinning right now, I need to get my head in line. I can see four of that one Elvis Presley bobblehead that my father got for me from his business trip to China; they were nuts over Presley, he told me. The bottle of vodka is floating. The newspaper keeps flying open. The headline says something about ‘Infglatyionnns’. Time to distract myself.
I’ve lit a joint and the smoke is swirling around my head.
Sparks and embers are, in my opinion, the most overused metaphors on this planet. And cigarettes, let’s not forget cigarettes. Cigarettes are the most overused metaphors on this planet, and embers and sparks exist in conjunction with cigarettes, and the last time I smoked a cigarette, I forgot where my legs were and slammed my face into the hood of someone’s car.
I’m the least poetic person I know, exactly why I’ve lit a joint instead, I like to keep away from clichés. Ash falls on my shorts, I like these shorts. They’re similar to the ones Scott Brown ruined, only those had two little zippers on each side, you could hide eleven sticks of gum in them, brilliant shit.
I wipe the ash off with my finger. There’s an underrated metaphor for you: fingers. I’ve never known fingers that aren’t poetic, there’s always a tap to document and a twitch to romanticize.
This could be the joint talking but someone should write poetry about fingers, holy crap.
A brush a tremble.
Entwined, inch toward the sun
in bloom. Fearless. Sure.
I don’t know what the fuck I just wrote, but I only had enough for this much. I think I’ll title it ‘Fingers’. The joint’s almost finished, just in time with my syllables. The lights look brighter, I should turn them off.
Everything is hazy. I’m not sure how to describe this hazy, I’m not a very poetic person. Everything is a blur. I haven’t cried today, but that’s probably because my eyes are swollen. Tara dropped off my homework and asked me if I’ve gotten any sleep. I laughed till my stomach hurt, I think I can still hear my heart gurgling inside; resilient little fellow.
I’ve been cleaning my mouth with mouthwash, and I’ve given up on changing my clothes, I couldn’t tell my t shirts apart if my life depended on it right now.
The lights look brighter, I really need to remember to turn them off at night.
Except that I have. No kidding, I’m running my fingers over the switchboard as I write this.
My eyes are less swollen (I accidentally washed my face today), and I can see little spots dancing in front of my eyes. Blurry little spots that change size, so not exactly little. Blurry spots that change size, like those fairy lights my father had hung over the door for Christmas, then didn’t take them down for the next seven months. Partially because he was too lazy to, partially because it made the door look pretty. Blurry spots hung over our door; it looked so delicate. Bokeh is the word they use for these spots, I think. Bokeh’s a funny word, I’m saying it over and over again.
I am shivering, and I need the world to know that we don’t really exist. Time is relative, but if time doesn’t actually exist in a uniform form, then could it just be a manifestation of our desperate need to label our existence? Could it be that progress is a process that is not marred by time, a process that just takes place as it should, when it should and however it wants; perhaps time is not unidirectional because it does not exist at all. Perhaps we created time, not clock time, but time, just as we created the cotton that covers our back and the bricks that guard the diamonds that we excavated that were previously coal which was previously a dinosaur, and my god, my mother has a dinosaur in her safe. Maybe dinosaurs were born from diamonds. What if everything is a cycle, and time does exist, only in every fucking direction ever imagined. What if time is so powerful, it created us? What if we imagine our own existence, my god, what if we are time?
Then again, it’s been one hundred and ninety two hours since I’ve gotten any sleep and it feels like forever, and I’m desperately hoping time is not unidirectional right now. Could it be that we only really exist inside our heads and come alive only when we sleep, and we can only harness time if we forego our true existence? Explains why it’s so hard to not sleep, you know. All I really want is to travel back in time.
If anyone ever gets their hands on this, I need you to know that I am a perfectly capable human being with an extensive vocabulary and brilliant mind, there’s not much that is wrong with me; I’m just really very desperate. If you know how to fix desperation, find me. I’m begging you, you can have everything I have ever owned, but find me and fix me.
My fingers are blue, I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying in the tub. The water’s turned cold, like Scott Brown’s drink on my favourite shorts. Like the weather that those blurry lights around my door used to warm up. Like my fingers on my chest. Like my father’s goddamn skin in his bloody grave.
Maybe water affects time, makes it feel like forever. I feel like I’m sixty three, man. Tara once said I talk like I’m an old man; that I belong to a time much before I was born, I was born in the wrong generation and whatnot. I’d told Tara to shut the fuck up and go back to listening to her Nirvana-Beatles bullshit.
I’m not writing anymore, my fingers are blue like the ink on the pages of my notebook. Forgive my substandard metaphors, this is all in my head and I’m not very poetic inside my head. Or anywhere at all. Everything’s hazy, and the lights are just not bright enough.
Do you think porcelain warps time, do you think there is a reason those guys in the movie made their time machine in a bathtub? Never mind, I’ve just remembered it was a hot tub, but nevertheless. Do you think porcelain warps time? I’m yawning uncontrollably.
I need to go back in time, I’m desperate. Everything seems to be moving so far away from me. I think I’ve foregone my existence enough.
I can see my father.
I am choking on my own breath, my heart is bubbling inside my stomach.
I can see my father, time is cold like the porcelain against my skin, like his hand on my shoulder. I can see my father.
I’m not a very poetic person, but I think this is what closure feels like. Untouched by time; naked and pure and cold.
I’m crying yet again, I think I should sleep.