The Stains Of History

Not sleeping, nor masturbating. No sex, and no drinking. These are the things I enjoy most. To not do them, makes me very dull. So instead, I run myself a bath and wait for the impending heat to warm my aching bones. Maybe I’ll read some Bukowski, or perhaps listen to a little music. Or I could just lay there submerged, doing nothing whatsoever. I like doing nothing, makes me feel calm. It’s growing dark outside, although it’ll be light for a few hours yet. Work was repetitive, but it gave me ample opportunity to daydream. I like daydreaming. Just drifting off someplace else, somewhere imaginative and endless, just losing myself there. The world around me reduced to blurred outlines, just the way it should be. My knees hurt, and there’s more grey hairs to be found on my head. As long as I’m not going bald though, don’t want any of that. Want to be left alone. Want to write in silence whilst looking out the window at the woods. The trees are my friends, and the animals too. People are a chore. Too unbalancing, always fucking up my equilibrium. Gotta get away from everybody, to a place where only I exist.

Been smoking too long. Don’t even enjoy it really, save for when I’m drunk, or looking out the window at night. I stand there in darkness, watching the lights of town shimmer from afar. Everything’s so peaceful, and I’m momentarily safe. Sometimes I’ll have a beer, and feel like some kind of poet. Other times I’ll just stand there, mind blank and staring at the shadows thinking of a time when I was young.

The sun sets and the urge to have a beer is strong now. She’s laying there, laughing on my bed. I’m content, but tired. There should be more words from me, but there aren’t. Something about love, or art. The way everything feels so still. The way loneliness is a friend I never want to leave. Even when I’m with others, even when I’m with her. It’s in my blood, and in my heart. It’s what I’m made of. If I came from stardust, than the waters where my ancestors swam must of been infected with a neverending source of sadness. Swimming in it, we have always been. Melancholy and anxiety, deep blue skies and the solemn nature of empty streets. All those parking lots at night. All those houses and deserted buildings, calling to me of the times we once had. Those evenings when I would pace around them, breathing in the scent of faded perfume and recalling memories of lost love. Those cigarettes outside on the doorstep, and summer days where tomorrow was a word not to be feared. It was just car journeys and sand. Lullabies and her.

All elements of past and future. Chaos. Love. Leviathan, and the moons of Mars. Dead space and debris. The ghosts of all those who have ever been close to me, and all those who ever held my heart in the palm of their hand. Wine and summer nights. Bottles of dreams and the days in between. The books that were read, and the despair that endured. All relics and sighs, alive inside. The stains of history, and the emotions that scarred themselves into my flesh. They’ll never leave me. Nothing ever leaves me. It just collects like dust and stains. More and more with every passing season. All those seasons, now so far removed.

And she strokes my hand, laughing at nothing in particular. It should be snowing, but it’s not.

Chaos reigns. All elements and substance, floating everywhere, and in everything. And then she sleeps. So I stand there keeping watch for tears in the very fabric of time. Ready to go back, to find my soul once more amidst the crumbling walls of my ever deteriorating mind.

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