1.11.2007

{truly.}

at night i lie in a grey scale room looking to the left, out a window. on my back, i listen to headphones. eyes open i imagine my beautiful brothers dancing under aphotic, murky water laughing. while milky streams of light course across their taut young bodies. so full of little fleshy facets.

i fall asleep and dream. i am watching a family of whales swim across the sky, subtly aglow with shades of orange and pink and turquoise. i am lying in an endless marshland, very sparsely vegetated. somnolently floating on my back. and the whales moan a mournful harmonious tune as they drift towards the west with the seagulls. several stars present themselves in the great expanse.

sometimes i go home and rub my father's feet. he is a tired man. i clip his nails and sooth his calloused hands with lotion. with fingertips i massage his temples. my palms lie flat against the parietal
bones of his skull. and my fingers gradually make their way along the temporal plates. soon enough he is sleeping, and i admire the manner in which the sun has broken down his face. his eyelids puffy, wrinkled. and underneath them remains the china blue.

i imagine myself older. going grey, my skin losing hold of the bones. i lie down with my mother. put my right arm around her, and say nonsensical, whimsical things to her, until she says that she is tired.
we are wrapped in down blankets. she smells like her own skin, and i remember being very small, smelling her slips when i missed her. the shade of her lipstick.

i picture my parents underwater dancing and kissing each other. their bodies are old, scarred, and filled out. they are dancing underwater.


at night sometimes i pray for myself. not to be so disenchanted. not to be so sour. i begin to understand the biology behind family. the desire for it. and why not create something that loves you back. beyond biology. when they are gone. when i leave them. and every day will be like having hands in boiling water. i'd like not to be so disillusioned. don't let me stop writing. because during the dissatisfaction of days a fool sometimes sits outside embarking on specific delinquent thought patterns. sparked by unsubstantiated feelings of loss. and allowing the presumed bad deck of dirty cards to be taken in gusts gradually. timely winds devour. one by one, or handfuls, all the same. and the witness stares passively ungratified. at times, frustrations well up right behind the eyes, as they dance like unaffected leaves down the red brick roads. and pining, i do nothing. seeking the still and quiet voice, i do nothing. and so at night i lie in the bed i've made for begging saying please. don't let me die of nothing.

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