There is night time and then there is darkness. My nights are shrouded by something blacker than the absence of sun.
They call it impulse control. I have none. I am giving in. There are urges that I do not understand. I do know that these impulses call to me under the cover of night. I do not remember what they tell me. I just hear the echoes of their whispers.
You do not want to experience waking up in the morning on the sofa with no clothes on. It is not appropriate for the climate. My skin was blue. A hot shower helped with the shivering but the rusty-looking water falling into the bath disturbed me.
Then there is the matter of the washing machine. I needed to wash towels. The machine was already full. I did not fill it. I did not wash those clothes. I did not empty the detergent so that there was only enough for these towels.
Why is the machine making this grinding noise? What is caught in the mechanism?
I need to watch myself more closely. But how?
There is a darkness in Justin Beiber’s eyes. He claims that he is not afraid to die. What if he were to disappear into his own darkness and never again emerge? Should we mourn or should we say that he has gone to a place where he feels more at home. I pray that he loves himself more than he seems to. It would be a shame if the dark and lonely path he is on ends in silence.
If I had a pill to take away the shadows …
It happened again last night. I almost never used to dream. Just a scatter of shattered images in shades of red and black. I tried to turn on the light but it became darker.
If I could only take a sweet medicine …
The shine of her eyes with the mask of my face reflected in them. She seemed to want it even more than I did. She didn’t struggle. Her face haunts my dreams more often now.
If there was some way to stop.
This is a darker dance. We turn gracefully, now with eyes closed and fall in slow-motion as the floor swallows us. Pray you never experience the fall. Pray hard my friend.
Had a jolly old time this evening walking behind a young woman at dusk along a quiet road whistling Psycho Killer.
You remember – the song from the nineteen seventies by Talking Heads:
Qu’est-ce que c’est
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away.
Well, obviously she had never heard of it because she did not turn around to look. Except for once – right at the end, just before the road went into the darkest, loneliest place where the only company is trees and undergrowth.
But by then it was too late.
I had already turned off along a side road.
I had seen her get her mobile phone out. Modern technology is such a bane.