Portrait and a Dream



Life is a hangover. It’s the mental image of a nude woman on my bed being replaced by that of a landscape consisting of dog walkers and kite enthusiasts. Oh, the light hurts my eyes; it makes me feel too human, and above everything, I wish never to feel human. Pour me some wine, something white and dry. Light me a cigarette, and take the first hit so I don’t damage my sensitive lungs. Is this a dream? Yeh, maybe. Is it wrong to not want to be like others? Is it a sin to wish them into oblivion? No, not really. Stretching the canvas, I take the tubes of paint and attack as if it were the face of an ex-lover. This storm, it never seems to shift. Sometimes it eases up, as there’s a brief moment when the struggle fades, but it never sticks around long enough for me to feel any better. Like a caged animal, I inflict with no purpose. Like a child trapped in the clutches of weeds that reach from beneath the surface of a lake, my existence is never far from harm. Between boredom and pain, there are fragments of light that shine as bright as a star, but they’re so fleeting it never seems worth it. But here I am, still going strong even though the end would surely be best for everyone. In nature, the patterns of existence lift me up, and yet they reduce so cruelly. On my belly in a field of snakes, they seduce the same as they did when the bottle was as new to me as the breast of a woman. What’s worse, to be addicted to a substance, or a vision? Does the substance drive the vision, or act as a substitute sensation when the vison’s not around? Hell if I know, and sometimes, hell if I care. If things were simple, life wouldn’t be worth it. Love wouldn’t be worth it.

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