Saturday, April 24, 2010

fill my empty bones

I had mapped out my entire nervous system, with stars and circles at every important point. It wasn't to scale or even drawn with a steady hand, but it was the transparent map that hung above my bed, assuring me that I had listened well to each whim that crossed the circuit in my head. It told me what I was and what I wasn't; an analytical model that somehow convinced me I
was more than flesh.
I participated last night in a melancholy and exploitative jive with sweaty bodies thrashing in drunken unison to a percolating twang of guitar and grisly vocals. These are songs I sing in my head when I'm the only living soul in my house and I let the lonely silence seduce me. These are songs I injected straight into my being until they became partners with my red and white blood cells. These were those songs at least.
They might remind me now that they inspired me to become my own opposing argument against my belief in the god of Freedom. I took advantage of the one I pray to each night when I ask to wake up to another day of wanton bliss. He's scolded me for being greedy and stockpiling supposed ideal memories; swaying freely but to a selfish beat. I literally abandoned compassion, seeing the forced smiling of my friends flash in and out of my vision as another "free spirit" danced in front of me.
My hands were in this stranger's hair and he was singing those lyrics I know so well into my ear, but my eyes were heavy with the wrong kind of tears. I was disgusted with myself, him, and every inebriated flailing body around me. From so many miles away I ripped down that map of myself from the ceiling of my bedroom. The legend was the first to go; I watched myself burn a hole through the new, crisp paper.The rest of the destruction was violent and mournful and I couldn't stop. Once I was back in the folds of my familiar sheets, I couldn't sleep without having that confident reference to keep me company. I woke up every hour, not being able to define reality from dream or nightmare.
I'm tired now and I feel the pull to dress myself again in a private skin while I determine whether or not I'm just made of flesh and instinct. I'm praying to Freedom. I cannot be a prisoner to the constructs of the unreal one more time and I feel my self being dragged to the prison house.