Black coffee shoots into my veins and stains them like oil, dripping off abandoned pipes, soaking the meat and earth beneath alike. It’s Friday morning and the sun isn’t much brighter than the ghostly moon. And the warmth has left the light. And I’m trying to feed on sudden chill in the morning air.
It’s been long since I had seizures. I’m not used to them anymore. I was told to move on and I did. But now old habits are trying to claim me. Old sickness has metastasized into my consciousness and what ease once life had, has been weighted down by quiet fears. I write now not because of my love or desire to be remembered, or even worse, to be “understood”. But because I hope it will suck out doubts from my mind and heart.
People around me seamlessly move into autumn without realizing the damage it brings to their hearts, the lines it leaves in the corners of their neglectful eyes. People around me live away their lives, unconcerned about the things that are natural, the things they’ve gotten used to. And I like to think that I’ll be like them one day. But today I wear black to mourn years soaked in autumn. I drink black coffee to feel the intensity of aging and its bitter flavor. And I eat nothing to honor that pure and painful energy generated by hunger. I am a boy from Vincent’s charcoal drawings, with a lot more past than future.
And now I believe you can’t really explore your mind unless you put it in danger, unless you torture and cut it, damage and abandon it.. My brain was colored by Marc, not Renoir. And instead of Greek masters my body was cast in bronze by Rodin. If there was any freedom in madness I did not see it. I was sought out by anxiety and doubts instead.
Marta and I fucked that morning. I craved answers lost inside her. She craved domination over me. And both of us, willing to die, lived on.
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