tuesday-night

while I was thinking of death my hands rolled a cigarette but more pathetic is the bottle of soy sauce standing on the kitchen table like the cap stands on a bottle of whisky for some and the door of the bathroom cabinet stands ajar for others while my hands were rolling a cigarette I thought of death worried I was only alive because of a pending swan song I wasn't good enough to sing

I'm awake, I'm asleep, I fluctuate, I have long dreams of mysterious landscapes, dreaming-awake adventures in majestic valleys and sci-fi cities, ascending endless staircases and fire escapes, climbing up mountains, wandering into the deep dark forests of my mind, and why now? Why is it now that they appear visual and concrete and beautiful in front of my sleep-awake eyes, when I've wandered blind, stumbling and falling, in them for so long? I've lost something and found something, I feel it like a box feels heavy in my hands, there is something inside but what? What was lost? Myself. What was found? Myself. What was myself? Wait, wait, don

I tell a teacher that I like school, that I'm not an alcoholic yet, and that I stole a pair of knickers from the launderette when I was desperate. I don't tell him how my existential angst was made into a funfair ride, even though I want to. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------