Somehow Misguided

Misguided &; Confused

A rhythm both faint and strong; subtle agony beneath morning-after
euphoria. I rolled my eyes: nonsense. It was just a hangover and I
convinced myself I thought too much and thinking too much was
dangerous. My blurred vision as waves without distinction, clarity
gradually overpowering them until distinct shapes and colors revealed
themselves. Stop it. The thick fog of spontaneous decisions receding
deep into the painfully sober realities of consciousness. That was deep
but what time is it, I wondered?
"Good morning," He whispered so soothingly yet I became alarmed. My
heart and mind were racing to unearth identity. Thick eyebrows, a small
nose and straight teeth: Marc, of course; again. A fake smile is a
difficult manouver to master. I wondered about this latest situation
but decided it better not to know all the specifics of my life, my
decisions, my consequences. Besides, the walls were green and bordered
with navy, so how bad could it be?
"I'm fine Marc, thanks. Did you have a good night?" I already knew
meaningless conversations were absurd on a platter of burnt leather
with the heat of sex still inside me but a rediscovery was imminent.
What was his dog's name? I hated that dog and couldn't find my other
shoe. Was this guilt I was feeling? No, impossible. Although - strange
place for a mirror, I thought as my gaze drifted towards the heavens;
my messy hair and raw lips more obvious than usual. Maybe now the
angels couldn't see me. Or worse yet: a magnifying glass. That would be
unspeakable. Matches glared from atop a pile of sexually discarded
underclothes and taunted me, over and over: we know what you did. I
thought of screaming, wondering if I was still drunk.
"What do you mean you want me to pinch you?"
"Dont ask questions, Marc, just do it."
My soft skin began to spark with the somewhat pleasurable tingle of
active nerves. Pink now, my skin. I decided his eyes were asking too
many questions and I became nervous. Did I think too much because
matches were talking to me or was the reverse more truthful; matches
talked to me because I thought too much? The angels, the matches, his
eyes; why I pleaded? It was better to know the answer, an answer, any
answer. I had given myself away like so much pocket change into
outstretched hands and now I was awake, sober.
"Fuck."

Frustrated &; Demented

Maybe Deanna Parsons didn't know refering to herself in the third
person was annoying, I reminded myself, but still, if there truly was a
God, his banished angels, those demons, would come and drag Deanna
Parsons by the ears into the depths of hell. There she would be
sentenced to an afterlife in agony for excessive use of 'you go girl'
and for making those little quotation marks with her fingers.
"So anyways, I told her off. I said, like, listen...okay? Deanna
Parsons takes shit like this from no one, especially not her eh?"
Deanna Parsons had lips. Their movement was distorted when speaking
and it appeared almost as though she was a foriegn woman, dubbed over
in English. No, Deanna Parsons was worse than a foriegn woman dubbed
over in English; I imagined Deanna Parsons was an actress in a
politically biased, black and white, low budget, foriegn film which was
marketed by the same people who brought us communism - and then dubbed
into English. I was thinking too much again and, everyone knows,
thinking too much is dangerous.
"So I hate to go, I know you enjoy my company but dear, Deanna Parsons
has work to do..."
I wondered how fast she could run. Deanna Parsons and her lips waddled
away only seconds after she had so viciously sucked the last breath of
life from a strangled cigarette, leaving the discarded remains on the
ground beside a dead match. There was lipstick on the cigarette butt as
an open, fatal wound. Those lips. Deanna Parsons really was annoying I
decided - or - maybe I was just jelious? The matches never said
anything bad about her.

Happiness &; Sorrow

Sometimes I wondered about myself. I had come to grips long ago with
an impression of being somewhat strange - acceptance, after all, is the
first step but now, with James, I was beginning to overlook the
seductive appeal of conformity, of mainstream ideas and a communal
persona. I had always wanted to be just slightly more like Darren,
Eve's exboyfriend, and live my life each day void of reflection and
content with a mind shallow and warm as the last beer. Now the idea of
being the last beer became terrifying and my mind drank the more
refreshing writing he shared. I walked with dead bluebirds beneath
purple skies and searched in vain for Estelle's imaginary poodle. I
thought of the whore's inability to love and her vile offspring's
twisted point of view and, oddly, felt awakened.
His stomach was soft. Warm echoes of hunger penetrated my temples and
sent my heart, my soul, in pursuit of satisfaction to ease the
cravings. We became a convoluted mass of needy flesh struggling to
satisfy intimate desires for affection, understanding. How absurd: only
deep in the arms of another being do I feel so singular and individual.
My body was satisfied but my consciousness craved for more. I thought
of the dead lovebirds and felt genuine sorrow at the length of time I
allowed my heart to be strip mined. I was afraid to sleep. The intense
fear of missing just a single word, a single moment, spawned an iron
masked insomnia which it feels I may never escape. Still I do not
sleep, I write and reflect and wonder, cautiously, what will
come.
I feel as Mara in the only play I ever ended, "She looked around her,
the tears in her eyes masking a foriegn world. She'd always been afraid
of regret and she'd always been afraid of fear. Now it was finished.
There would be no re-run, no second chance. Hindsight was torture, if
only...if only. 'If only' can kill. She could not help but think of her
Mother's cruel mockery, of that classic film she loved she much: You
will regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow - but soon, and for
the rest of your life." Now that I've experienced this - MAGIC - I feel
as satisfaction will never come from emotionless kisses and
connectionless relationships again. I have tasted this chocolate and
now nothing else will ever taste as good again.
"You're sweet."
And so I daydream. I daydream of lying on that smooth stomach,
listening to the cravings of intellect and I feel joyous, happy. I
would be content to lie there, wondering how I can drink my pepsi
without allowing my cigarettes to blow away, forever. Then I wonder
about the bastard weatherman and the churchbell's hips and decide -
Jesus - I really do think too much.

Wise &; Courageous

Purple was still purpose; the colors were the same. The faces and
names on scattered images of distant memories - nothing had changed.
Even the sweat and 'made with love' on a homemade blanket revealed to
me that, yes, the world was ultimatly the same as it had been seconds
before. I tried to decipher some hidden meaning in the similarities to
no avail - there was none. It was a simple thing really: I had changed
and the matches were beaming with pride.