It was the middle of the night, the drizzle tasted like aluminum, and the chill of the evening tried to whisper to my blood. But the warmth within me was too distracted to notice.
Head bowed not against the elements, but from the weight of an unachievable peace of mind.
I walked on a sidewalk of reflections, the landscape of suburbs held in the perfect stasis of rainfall. Every house a silent, empty backdrop.
I could have been walking for minutes. Or hours. Or days. It all bled together in a seamless smudge of traveled distance, and irrelevant time.
There was no wind, and no scent. The petrichor had fled back into the gutters long ago, and the only companion along for the ride was the tiny, wan light of a sickly, yellowish screen, cupped in my hands like it would speak the words that would save my life.
I sit in a puddle of a bench, beneath a tree unbent from summers I've never seen. It should feel unpleasant, but it doesn't. It doesn't feel like anything.
It's the perfect scene for a frontal lobotomy, self-performed, with my bare-- and despite the downpour-- unclean hands. Hoping that the tension in my shoulders doesn't crawl up into my temples, like a tapeworm of the mind. Eating my thoughts with nibbles of distraction before I can retrieve them.
When did consonance become so difficult?
I feel like I'm chasing minnows in a stream, trying to grab them with the malformed hands of a circus freak.
Trying to race a headache that, when it comes, is so debilitating that I forget what I'm doing before I finish remembering.
12:32 a.m. - 2014-04-29
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