Itch

Just a note, this was written whilst severely sleep deprived, medicated, eczema-ridden, and generally experiencing what could only be called teetering on the edge of sanity. As a result, I don’t think it makes much sense. This is the first time I’ve ever used this as a journal of sorts, I’ll try to make it the last. I just felt like I needed to get this out somewhere, despite no one ever really seeing it.

Well, this sucks. It just ticked over 34 hours since I last slept, and even that was a terribly unsatisfying affair of a few hours or so. I used to love going to bed. Now I hate it. It’s become a torpedoed ship on black sea, slowly sinking as I stare into darkness and try to resist the temptation of tearing my skin off with a large knife. Fucking birds too, they love reminding me of the world I feel so far away from now. ‘Oh hello sun, what a lovely day! Time for everyone to rise from their peaceful sleep, and begin their joyous day!’. Like seriously, shut up. I operate outside of time now anyway;  A violent merger of ante and post meridian, an unnatural car crash of meaningless time . It leaves me wondering whether the sun is ever going to return, as without it, all I have is my pale night moon, my violent electric companion in the sky. Sometimes I wonder if my eczema and insomnia is some form of hindered catharsis, as though something is literally trying to burst from within me, broken parts beginning to appear from beneath my increasingly pallid skin. If I examined what this pathos could be, I probably wouldn’t like what I would find. Perhaps my eczema is a reflection of my continual and unnerving fear that I cannot function in this world, that I am destined to be forever looking upon things I can never be a part of. The supposed easy things were just never that easy. I’m ineffectual, irresponsible, inexperienced, and utterly incapable. Alliteration is fairly easy for me, obviously. Maybe my increasingly red and torn exterior is not merely a food allergy, but an allergy to living, a symptom of my inability to coexist with a world that I do not understand. I feel so far away from everything now, like I’ve drifted beyond the horizon, forsaking any chance of hope and rescue, where the beating of my heart is merely a tattoo of the terrible irony that I’m still living even though my will to do so has faded, sunk behind the waves and never to return. I know that I look back sometimes though, casting my gaze to horizon, wondering if there’s anyone who could possibly ever find me out here. Sometimes I call out and listen for an echoing reply, reaching out to me with a gentle touch, comforting me out here on the edge of world.  But I know the hope is forlorn. Any reply would merely be a cracked transmission, broken and endlessly repeating, broadcast once and then forgotten, diffused and indiscernible amongst the frenzied noise of a billion voices all trying to eradicate the other.

5.10am. It’s now 36 hours since I slept last, and that occasion was only for two hours or so. I’m going to get cigarettes, and maybe see if there’s a train coming. I’m sure the tracks would be the perfect place to finally get some sleep.

Back now, I sit bathed in the neon glow of my laptop, the lingering smoke from one stale cigarette lit upon the other, its brief flare dotting the haze with flickering islands of light. Beautiful, really. I hear the birds, I see the enemy. Azure sky intruding through my curtains. Go away. If I fall and shatter, I don’t want anyone to see the pieces.

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