Lying here in 5 day old clothes and 30 some years of contempt.

This story will end in tears. Like all stories do. After the epilogue, behind the scenes, post after party destruction. Devolution.

There is nothing quite so painful as prolonged insomnia. It magnifies the pain of day as words twist and turn, toss and tangle, warp and wrangle the mind as it struggles for peace just one. Moment’s. Peace.

But no, the words rage on losing all meaning gaining all momentum in their crusade of torment every second thought every regret every question looms in darkness those red lights are flashing how are they still so bright after all these years? You stare until your eyes blur blink look away but they remain

Every open eye. They remain. Cruel, red minutes that are your life. Go by

And how fucking slowly they go by. Burning eyes open to a passing minute. Then suddenly hours. Panic. I must sleep a feeble thought wails from somewhere in there before it’s washed away or railed away or run over by this angry mob of

Guilt.

Pacing doesn’t help don’t even try. Reach for the phone for some salvation frantically type out this one last note if those last few thoughts can just get out if you write them down no need to think about them

See

A new thought comes. Violently. Eyes rip open. Panic. Nausea. Greeting card from some 30 year old mistake. New round. New wave of madness chanting prayers and postulates sayings and old photographs and tacky homemade placards on grandma’s wall Irish proverbs and Spanish housewarming dream catching knick knacks of childhood are somehow all the saddest thing you could ever remember and you soak your pillow

Blurring time