The days are unbelievable
The days are unbelievable messes. They never start. They are starting all the time, staggered for my troubles. I wont know which place I am waking up in out of them all, at the metal desk, under the table, wrapped in a cocoon on the bathroom floor. By the time I have asserted a context I am always at my desk with cold hands. It will never be perfect, but I want to be present when it happens. To be in that one place, days from now, I place myself in my toes, the sheets are still cold through my nails, the dew is cold through the spots bared through to my flesh and the sheets are stiffly rough on the scraps of skin that are not horned over and impenetrable, I feel their touch, each toe is warm where it connects back to my feet even in the stillness of the livid blood, I find a moment sealed away and stopped, I am in my fingertips and feel the singular evacuating pain through my fingernails from stored cold underneath the pillows. The cold confluence of my blood, each bit of me, pools in my chest, all beneath my skin. I lay and visualise myself walking in the white sun. Out there could be anywhere. Outside my skin is an omnipresent texture of fabric. I feel its incremental identity shift and slide over my skin when I adjust my body.
My room is empty in the sunlight. I appear and disappear from it at times that its emptiness wont destroy me. Empty rooms claim whole bodies and splatter them into balance against the vacuum, waiting to receive a character and vengefully prescribing each scrap to its place, and then I cant move. I went to the room of an afternoon, the long dust sunlight clouding the air, and I was torn to pieces. I come in late, after the streetlamps set and leave before I wake up. Today I am awake in the room as the morning draws on. I have choices. Something will happen regardless. I want to sit at the kitchen table and watch the sidewalk through the tall window, or force sleep to avoid controlling my consciousness, having to make choices. I want to make one choice and let it flow out from there. I want to make myself fall into the sand and let the wind blown dunes transport me where they might. If I choose to stare the world happens to my eyes. At my desk I look into a fluorescent light and it is days later.
