Time: 9:40 am.
Music: Wait And Bleed - Slipknot.
Mood: Dead.
Physical Condition: Wish I was in a coma.
Current Thoughts: Why is this such a mess?
I am in a cold black room, there is no sound in or out. There is merely no presence of light. Inky blackness, no more, no less. This is a small room, maybe five feet wide and 7 feet tall. The walls are lined with meticulously sharpened daggers, each four inches from another. There is only enough room to stand still. Any movement causes the daggers to stab me, causing blood loss and fatigue.
I am tired.
I'm so tired.
All I am able to do day to day is stand. I am ignorant as to how long I have been here. All I know is that I am here, standing in the black. I know about the daggers for I have bumped into them in moments of weakness. Moments where I feel I can no longer stand, and must rest, no matter what the cost. The temptation of the walls, of a moments rest becomes so overwhelming. All I want is that break. So I finally take it, and I get hurt.
I try so hard.
I'm losing.
I've been fighting for so long. I don't know how long, but its been so very long. I've been fighting the impulses to fall, fighting the fatigue of standing for so long. For exerting myself so much. I've been trying so hard not to injure myself. Not to fall onto those daggers. No sleeping, crouching, leaning.
How long have I been here?
My eyes are heavy. I sometimes wonder if I even have eyes anymore. It doesn't seem to me I do. There is no difference between having them open and closed. They no longer even itch if I leave them open. I wonder if perhaps I am blind. And that this room is no darker than the sunny side of heaven. I am somehow disinclined to believe that, but I have no way of disproving it. All I know is I can no longer see.
Claustrophobia.
It feels like the walls are closing in on me. It's hard to breathe. I'm panicking, and in doing so, I am repeatedly stabbing myself on the daggers surrounding my dark prison. After trying so hard for so long, I've become so tired and so weak that I can no longer hold myself up. I've used up the last of my energy fighting for consciousness. Though I can not see them I am anticipating the sting of the daggers. Any moment now.
I laugh.
As the cold metal bites through my skin I am laughing.
The lights come on. I am laughing.
Blood pours from my multiple wounds, and I am laughing.
This is the first time I've seen the light, felt real, and been warm for who knows how long. I can't remember. Of course I have no way of knowing.
I am dead.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Stirring The Pot
I am sitting in the bath tub, eyeing the hot water. I do not understand why, but for some reason I feel I must stick my face below the water and submerge my ears, like I did as a child. I can't remember why. I just want to. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and submerge my head. The water rushes into my ears, deafening me to world around me. I am blind because I have closed my eyes. I feel nothing but comforting warmth. I drift.
I awake in my bed. This is the third night in a row. It's 3:12am. As usual. It's always the same time, but never three nights in a row. I don't understand. I peel back the covers and sit up in my bed, feet resting inches above the icy floorboards. I am six years old.
There are noises coming from the kitchen, and I can tell the lights are on even through the towel shoved under my door.
I have come to associate a towel placed under a door with covering an unpleasant scent. I'm not sure what it is, but I know that the fumes can't be good for me.
I hear noises coming from my kitchen.
Cautiously I slide out of bed, taking care not to upset the dollhouse by my closet or the tower of blocks by my desk. My mother told me to clean my room, but that was a week ago. I never got to it, and I don't plan on doing it anytime soon. Whenever I clean my room I find that, well, I simply can not find. Everything is missing. I can never tell where exactly I put everything. I can never remember. Sometimes I wonder why my short term memory is so bad. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fumes creeping under my door.
My door is creaky. I know this because it has a bad habit of getting me in trouble when I don't want to be heard. Three weeks ago I figured out that if you apply enough pressure to the hinges, the door opens silent, like a ghost.
I am a ghost. Dressed in a small white night gown, long curly hair rolling down my back, I glide breathlessly through my door and down the hallway. I take refuge from the fumes in the washroom, closing the door completely and blocking it out with a towel. The washroom is safe because it has a lock. I figure that no one can harm me in there because no one can open the lock.
The noises in the kitchen stop. A knock sounds upon the door.
"Jennifer, are you in there?"
"Yes dad!"
"What are you doing up? It's late and you have school in the morning. Get to bed." I can tell that he is angry with me. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's doing, because what he is doing is bad. I may not know much, but I know that if you're awake at three in the morning filling your house with fumes, you're doing something bad and secret that you don't want anyone knowing about. I believe it is secret, because he only does it in the dead of night. I can't be sure though. I hate my curiosity.
"I'm sorry dad, I woke up and needed to use the washroom." I lie.
"Well in that case it's fine," he grumbled, "could you go out there and stir that pot for a moment then while you're up? I need to use the washroom as well, and I can't leave it sitting."
"Yes dad."
Finally my curiosity will have an answer. I will know the image of the source of the fumes. I will know where they come from, and maybe if I'm lucky, what it is."
The stench is foul. I stand on a chair in front of my stove stirring the pot. There is a thin green liquid inside. The source of the smell. It reminds me of rubbing alcohol, but with something different to it. Rubbing alcohol isn't bright green. Once again I am so confused and curious.
My father emerges from the restroom, eyes red and puffy from being exposed to the fumes for too long. "Get to bed." He snarls.
"Dad, what's in the pot?" I ask.
"It's daddy's medicine kid, now beat it." He scolds as he cuffs me in the ear.
I have two daddy's. Night daddy and day daddy. Day daddy lasts from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Day daddy reads to me, plays with me, and makes me laugh. Night daddy likes to hit and yell. I don't like night daddy. Sometimes they trade times. But not often. Tonight I am not so fortunate.
I leave the kitchen in tears, humiliated that he scolded me and hit me even after I helped him with his medicine. All I did was ask one question. I don't understand why being curious is so wrong. I have come to believe that daddy likes his medicine more than he likes me. He spends so much time making it and preparing it. He never scolds it or strikes in. He never gets mad at it or throws it against the wall. He must love it more than he loves me.
I often wonder why I am not good enough to be loved. If mommy and daddy loved me, would they continue to ignore me so? If mommy and daddy loved me wouldn't they hate each other less. I do not sleep much. I lie awake and wonder why my parents don't love me, and why they love their medicine so much. It hurts me to know that I am always second. I am six. I am a child. They should love me. I am life, whereas the medicine reeks of death.
I close my door and leave my lights out. There are things far more frightening than the dark. I don't fear the dark, I embrace it. It makes it harder for night daddy to find me. It makes it easier to hide. I love the dark. I return to bed and cry myself to sleep.
Tomorrow I get to pretend nothing happened and that I'm just a normal grade one student with a normal life. I will call my nights horrible dreams if asked, and I will never tell because I still love them.
I often wonder why.
I raise my head out of the water to take a breath and then submerge it once again. Like I did as a child, only now I remember why I did this.
I can still hear my mother screaming and the crunch of a body against cement.
The hot water masks my tears.
I awake in my bed. This is the third night in a row. It's 3:12am. As usual. It's always the same time, but never three nights in a row. I don't understand. I peel back the covers and sit up in my bed, feet resting inches above the icy floorboards. I am six years old.
There are noises coming from the kitchen, and I can tell the lights are on even through the towel shoved under my door.
I have come to associate a towel placed under a door with covering an unpleasant scent. I'm not sure what it is, but I know that the fumes can't be good for me.
I hear noises coming from my kitchen.
Cautiously I slide out of bed, taking care not to upset the dollhouse by my closet or the tower of blocks by my desk. My mother told me to clean my room, but that was a week ago. I never got to it, and I don't plan on doing it anytime soon. Whenever I clean my room I find that, well, I simply can not find. Everything is missing. I can never tell where exactly I put everything. I can never remember. Sometimes I wonder why my short term memory is so bad. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fumes creeping under my door.
My door is creaky. I know this because it has a bad habit of getting me in trouble when I don't want to be heard. Three weeks ago I figured out that if you apply enough pressure to the hinges, the door opens silent, like a ghost.
I am a ghost. Dressed in a small white night gown, long curly hair rolling down my back, I glide breathlessly through my door and down the hallway. I take refuge from the fumes in the washroom, closing the door completely and blocking it out with a towel. The washroom is safe because it has a lock. I figure that no one can harm me in there because no one can open the lock.
The noises in the kitchen stop. A knock sounds upon the door.
"Jennifer, are you in there?"
"Yes dad!"
"What are you doing up? It's late and you have school in the morning. Get to bed." I can tell that he is angry with me. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's doing, because what he is doing is bad. I may not know much, but I know that if you're awake at three in the morning filling your house with fumes, you're doing something bad and secret that you don't want anyone knowing about. I believe it is secret, because he only does it in the dead of night. I can't be sure though. I hate my curiosity.
"I'm sorry dad, I woke up and needed to use the washroom." I lie.
"Well in that case it's fine," he grumbled, "could you go out there and stir that pot for a moment then while you're up? I need to use the washroom as well, and I can't leave it sitting."
"Yes dad."
Finally my curiosity will have an answer. I will know the image of the source of the fumes. I will know where they come from, and maybe if I'm lucky, what it is."
The stench is foul. I stand on a chair in front of my stove stirring the pot. There is a thin green liquid inside. The source of the smell. It reminds me of rubbing alcohol, but with something different to it. Rubbing alcohol isn't bright green. Once again I am so confused and curious.
My father emerges from the restroom, eyes red and puffy from being exposed to the fumes for too long. "Get to bed." He snarls.
"Dad, what's in the pot?" I ask.
"It's daddy's medicine kid, now beat it." He scolds as he cuffs me in the ear.
I have two daddy's. Night daddy and day daddy. Day daddy lasts from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Day daddy reads to me, plays with me, and makes me laugh. Night daddy likes to hit and yell. I don't like night daddy. Sometimes they trade times. But not often. Tonight I am not so fortunate.
I leave the kitchen in tears, humiliated that he scolded me and hit me even after I helped him with his medicine. All I did was ask one question. I don't understand why being curious is so wrong. I have come to believe that daddy likes his medicine more than he likes me. He spends so much time making it and preparing it. He never scolds it or strikes in. He never gets mad at it or throws it against the wall. He must love it more than he loves me.
I often wonder why I am not good enough to be loved. If mommy and daddy loved me, would they continue to ignore me so? If mommy and daddy loved me wouldn't they hate each other less. I do not sleep much. I lie awake and wonder why my parents don't love me, and why they love their medicine so much. It hurts me to know that I am always second. I am six. I am a child. They should love me. I am life, whereas the medicine reeks of death.
I close my door and leave my lights out. There are things far more frightening than the dark. I don't fear the dark, I embrace it. It makes it harder for night daddy to find me. It makes it easier to hide. I love the dark. I return to bed and cry myself to sleep.
Tomorrow I get to pretend nothing happened and that I'm just a normal grade one student with a normal life. I will call my nights horrible dreams if asked, and I will never tell because I still love them.
I often wonder why.
I raise my head out of the water to take a breath and then submerge it once again. Like I did as a child, only now I remember why I did this.
I can still hear my mother screaming and the crunch of a body against cement.
The hot water masks my tears.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Confusion Will Be My Epitaph.
Mood: Adjacent to 'fine', but closer to 'neutral'.
Music: Piano Lessons - Porcupine Tree.
Drink: Fruit Punch.
Outlook on Life: Neither here nor there.
Current Thoughts: Medicine is the death of modern man.
I wonder why the world turns 'round, and why the sky doesn't fall though it's far from the ground. I wonder who I am to be allowed to wonder such scandals. I wonder about death and what happens after the fact. I wonder about human existence, and whether or not it is real. I wonder what real is. I wonder.
Does this mean I think?
I can not simply think that the world turns around, and that the sky doesn't fall - can I? I can not simply think that I am allowed to think. I can not think that there is something after death. I can not think on what is real. I can not think about my existence, because I have no way of knowing any of these things are real. Because I do not know. And no one else knows. Because knowledge is not fact. It can not be reality, if no one knows what is real.
Is anything real?
I think, therefore I am.
Am I?
But of course I must be. Because I think. Because I wonder. Therefore I must be. It doesn't matter as to WHAT I am. All I know is I am. Because I think. So if I know I am, because I think. Does that not make some knowledge real?
Could we not prove the existence of reality by the knowledge of ourselves?
But does that mean, we all exist inside our heads? Or does that mean that reality is open to interpretation? Would our mind be so complex as to invent our reality, or are we all crazed psychic brains all hallucinating in sync so that our realities all appear the same?
I think, therefore I exist.
Knowledge. I know I exist. I don't know what I am. But I KNOW I exist. Therefore reality must be real, at least to me. Because I exist, I perceive, and as long as I perceive, there is reality. But it is my reality. It will be different from other's realities. But it is real to me. And therefore it is reality.
Reality exists, as I exist, for if I didn't exist, my reality wouldn't exist, and there would be nothing.
Music: Piano Lessons - Porcupine Tree.
Drink: Fruit Punch.
Outlook on Life: Neither here nor there.
Current Thoughts: Medicine is the death of modern man.
I wonder why the world turns 'round, and why the sky doesn't fall though it's far from the ground. I wonder who I am to be allowed to wonder such scandals. I wonder about death and what happens after the fact. I wonder about human existence, and whether or not it is real. I wonder what real is. I wonder.
Does this mean I think?
I can not simply think that the world turns around, and that the sky doesn't fall - can I? I can not simply think that I am allowed to think. I can not think that there is something after death. I can not think on what is real. I can not think about my existence, because I have no way of knowing any of these things are real. Because I do not know. And no one else knows. Because knowledge is not fact. It can not be reality, if no one knows what is real.
Is anything real?
I think, therefore I am.
Am I?
But of course I must be. Because I think. Because I wonder. Therefore I must be. It doesn't matter as to WHAT I am. All I know is I am. Because I think. So if I know I am, because I think. Does that not make some knowledge real?
Could we not prove the existence of reality by the knowledge of ourselves?
But does that mean, we all exist inside our heads? Or does that mean that reality is open to interpretation? Would our mind be so complex as to invent our reality, or are we all crazed psychic brains all hallucinating in sync so that our realities all appear the same?
I think, therefore I exist.
Knowledge. I know I exist. I don't know what I am. But I KNOW I exist. Therefore reality must be real, at least to me. Because I exist, I perceive, and as long as I perceive, there is reality. But it is my reality. It will be different from other's realities. But it is real to me. And therefore it is reality.
Reality exists, as I exist, for if I didn't exist, my reality wouldn't exist, and there would be nothing.
Backlog.
2009
Good morning. Blink. Good afternoon. Blink. Good evening. Blink. Good night. Blink.
Narcolepsy, one of the wonders of the human mind.
How delightful to blink and wake up at a different time, in a different place. Day after day after day. Everything seems to meld together into one massive thing. Everyday is just a part of one long day.
A month goes by.
"Who am I? Where am I? What month is it? Which year?"
Exaggeration.
It is now January, I feel as though I just woke up for the first time since September. In a room full of friends. A room full of new faces. A room. It's spinning. Am I about to fall back asleep? No. I think I'm awake. Finally. How droll.
I remember this time last year. I was in a strange house full of strange people I barely knew. Plastic faces plastered to my dry-wall memory. I remember. It was so fake. Now I ask myself, why?
Why?
Because there was nothing better to do? No. Because he was there. He wanted me there. So I went. Am I just a puppy; destined to worship ever pretty face who returns my devotion? No. Because I'm here. With people who care. I'm here, out of my own accord, because I want to be. Not because of one individual.
I'm not as blind as I appear perhaps.
Blink.
It is four years from now. Where am I? Who are you? I don't understand!
"Happy New Year Darling!" He calls out and kisses me fiercely against the wall.
Blink.
It is now again. I am back in 2009. Will that happen? Could it? No. Because I am different now. I am not the same person, chasing the same people. The same ideas. I'm no longer a dog chasing cars.
I have a "car".
I have a life and and I'm content to spend the rest of it in the same fashion as I've been doing this past two months.
Blink.
It is now six years from now.
"Hello guys. Happy New Year, here's to another six."
-New Years Eve 2009-
Good morning. Blink. Good afternoon. Blink. Good evening. Blink. Good night. Blink.
Narcolepsy, one of the wonders of the human mind.
How delightful to blink and wake up at a different time, in a different place. Day after day after day. Everything seems to meld together into one massive thing. Everyday is just a part of one long day.
A month goes by.
"Who am I? Where am I? What month is it? Which year?"
Exaggeration.
It is now January, I feel as though I just woke up for the first time since September. In a room full of friends. A room full of new faces. A room. It's spinning. Am I about to fall back asleep? No. I think I'm awake. Finally. How droll.
I remember this time last year. I was in a strange house full of strange people I barely knew. Plastic faces plastered to my dry-wall memory. I remember. It was so fake. Now I ask myself, why?
Why?
Because there was nothing better to do? No. Because he was there. He wanted me there. So I went. Am I just a puppy; destined to worship ever pretty face who returns my devotion? No. Because I'm here. With people who care. I'm here, out of my own accord, because I want to be. Not because of one individual.
I'm not as blind as I appear perhaps.
Blink.
It is four years from now. Where am I? Who are you? I don't understand!
"Happy New Year Darling!" He calls out and kisses me fiercely against the wall.
Blink.
It is now again. I am back in 2009. Will that happen? Could it? No. Because I am different now. I am not the same person, chasing the same people. The same ideas. I'm no longer a dog chasing cars.
I have a "car".
I have a life and and I'm content to spend the rest of it in the same fashion as I've been doing this past two months.
Blink.
It is now six years from now.
"Hello guys. Happy New Year, here's to another six."
-New Years Eve 2009-
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