That cloying sensation of taking your brain away.
Some people imagine dark corridors that house the screams of the wounded. Hostel-like rooms with fingernail bamboo and lunatic water droplets. They think it's how your mind protects itself when faced with cessation.
My dissociation was wrapped in silk bedsheets, in the arms of the faceless. My mechanical gestures came from ball-bearing points of articulation. Filmed-over eyes closed against myself and pressed into the comforting suffocation of pillows. My hollow voice thrums with no resonance. Executing automatic technique from the knowledge of hundreds of repetitions.
And my brain taken far away. To lands of cherub-down sunrises, and tinfoil lipstick. Any imaginary place to scaffold my disconnection
A break in performance would find me disheveled and weary, standing in a stranger's bathroom. Staring myself in my own bloodshot and shadow-lined eyes. My mind would come back to me, a little finch alighting on a tenuous cord. I'd look at myself and ask in an accusatory whisper: "What are you doing?"
The sting of frigid tapwater would chase me away from myself again. I'd brace myself for validation of my existence; verification of my masculinity. With the deadly seriousness of a gut-shot gunshot, I return to my just-for-now lover. All one-half of me.
9:34 p.m. - 2014-12-08
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