I'm tired -- tired of being tired, of feeling like my body is held down by anchors sunk to unfathomable depths, leaving me struggling for air, for energy. I'm tired -- of waking up to feel like going back to sleep, where my body is whole and full of life. I'm tired -- of running interference with exhaustion, and mitigating it with so much coffee that my piss stinks of it. I'm fucking tired -- the spirit is willing, is full of fire and passion, but this Judas of a body is weak.
There's one addiction I have and that's living in the past. I like to go back in time and replay scenes in my head; good ones, bad ones, they're all the same. I like to relive them in great detail, slowing down time to capture the specifics I missed in those moments the first time around. I imagine that they are photographs, and imagine the condition they'd be in. Some edges worn from constant replay, other sticky with the aftermath of love making, still others, ripped and pasted together again, their edges burnt in fury.
There's something soothing about running my fingertips along the edges of a well-loved book. Something gratifying in the softness of something once so precise. I hope, that in my old age, I find the same sweet softness in myself that I find so valuable in a book.
I lift my face skyward so the rain can wash over me, kissing my brow, soothing the delicate flesh beneath my eyes, caressing my weary mouth. And for a moment, as fleeting as a heartbeat I feel perfect in my brokenness.
Battles for life happen in the desert; saints, demoniacs, madmen, Jesus. My desert was a shitty community pool, brimming with gallons of toddler piss and ruptured fart bubbles. I'd hopped the fence at 4 a.m. fearful I'd skewer my cunt and be stuck like that under the humid moonless Florida sky. I'd jumped in with my, No. His clothes on, like some pathetic Ophelia. Even my Chuck Taylor's which made me feel so Rock 'n Roll. I could hear my breathing, my heartbeat; In. Thump, thump. Out. Thump, thump. And I sent up a prayer to whatever God was listening. Even if it was nothing at all. Just let me die, in this piss filled pool and in the morning some poor slob can fish me out. Long handled skimmer; and me too dead to care about the burden.