I no longer rest in my sleep. Yet it is absolute, devours me
rapidly and mindlessly as if it had nothing really to even do with me.
It devours me whole, a Hydra with a singular black mouth. She's complete
with all of her heads only thereon. On the inside of me and on the inside of sleep,
she holds me entirely in unbridled dreams. Then pushes me out in one
single motion, abruptly and in slow motion at the same time, like a birth.
And I am pale and new and hundreds of years old all at once.
It doesn't get any easier after the restful holidays, it gets worse.
During the first mornings of January, I'm tired of the day before
even having slid down from our tall bed. My glance gets caught in the
web of purple spider veins that are now formed on my left thigh.
Gets caught in the pallidness. The light doesn't want me. So I remain
sitting, with my feet soaring above the floorboards. Between skin
and wood, the only few inches of anything, that are simple.
/
the photograph is work for makers and muse
0 comments:
Post a Comment