Stains

I’m sitting here listing to Atropine by Velvet Cacoon. It’s nighttime. I am alone in a house that does not belong to me. The drone of Atropine is mesmerizing, I can feel my heart rate dropping as my nerves grow calm. This meditative semi-serenity is ephemeral. Doubt is creeping in. It’s been a long day and I want to write more but begin to doubt myself. I no longer wish to continue. I can never find the words to describe exactly what I wish to convey, and yet I keep trying with imprecise and gaudy methods, fumbling through barely thought-out first and final drafts, like little stains that time can’t quite wash away, but aren’t large enough to be noticed at once consciously.

Little ideas trickle from the wellspring of my experiences in and out of focus. Every now and again, I catch a glimpse of something interesting, a unique -at least to me- concept relative to certain themes I’ve encountered which overlap and comprise various shades of existence as I am able to perceive them. Some are wistful, fanciful; others are darker, and I don’t dwell often in that realm. These glimpses of the latter darkness are maddening. If I were to spend any more time than I do thinking them, or rather, less time pushing them down and away, it would be panic inducing to say the least. I don’t know all the secrets of the universe, but I don’t think I’d like to, either. Once you learn something, it’s there to stay, good or bad. Some things are better not to know. I remember being curious about intravenous drug use once upon a time… I decided to investigate and found myself in the unenviable position of having become a full-blown junkie. Ever since, I like to think I’ve learned that some foreign concepts or themes should remain as such, and their absence makes existence less awful, if not less interesting.