Yesterday, around 3 a.m. I was in my room, spread out like jam on bread walls, white like canvas and smooth like skin.
When you spend 2 years in the same room, you forget where your body ends. I know every inch of this room. I’ve cried in all corners, banged my head against the walls, and spent my nights under the bed. That’s why part of me exists as a heavy mist that fills every nook and cranny of this room. It came down heavy last night, moving like a river that flows from Armageddon. It starts from within the Mountain, comes down with great indifferent speed, and rapes the valley. And then it slithers onto the sea, its hubris hidden by the rubble flowing across the floor of my bedroom.
It was not a pleasant night.
It was into this bright abyss that the Song entered, a spear with a taper that turned my concrete box into a balloon drifting in the backyard on a summer afternoon. Inevitable release, uncomfortable absorption- the osmosis of the night. The explosion was silent, the suction pleasurable. My mist had escaped the room and seeped into a world beyond that was growing with every note. I felt my body becoming smaller every second. I was being consumed, to new life through death.
Then in the corner of my eye that was too heavy to keep open anymore, I saw a stack of my old comics. An epic sigh. Oh, what tragedy! There was a time when I enjoyed life, when I thought it was worth something. Where is the teat from which Lethe flows? Where is the comfort of chains?
My ailment, like music, has a way of taking away my past and my future. A couple of old comics had turned things around. The past had become accessible. The mist returned, the music stopped, and my body found its place in my room once again.
Inspiration was complete.
Loneliness, as I realized, was always in temporal isolation from all that I was and will be. May it remain so.