blustocking | (no subject)

Since I will be up for quite a few more hours. I have half-assedly started my homework. I am going through all of my writing, most of it from high school, as that's, unfortunately, where the bulk of it lies...for now. And I came across a story I wrote when I was 17, which is also my excuse for how poorly written it is. (slight grammar corrections made)

"mistaken Reality"

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. To this I scream,

"Liar!"

They never warn you what words can do.

I woke up this morning and realized my problems existed in doing just that.
"Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I'll love ya, Tomorrow..."

Songs, phrases, rants, whispers, in the safety of darkness, keep spinning, slamming, swirling in and out of my secret place, leaving static and afterthoughts for me to sort out. (I'm saving those for later, preserving) Canned old hate.

"I love you, remember that." Yeah, you remember that.

Standing, staggering, I reach for the light switch, flipping it, I let the light lash at my skin, my eyes. I stand there, propped by the arm that brought the offense, absorbing, assimilating. Hours pass, days pass, minutes fly, and I am drained. I drearily glance over to my crumpled bed, clothed in ivory and drops of crimson candle-wax. I must remember to get rid of those soon.

Seeing this tiny remembrance, I begin to find the bathroom. A girl can't just sleep her life away, as much as she'd like to, she can't.

It's the little things that bring it all back, and make one want to crawl forever between the almost-forgotten warmness of the sheets. My life unconscious is tearing me away from the harsh, waking reality.

"Dream a little dream of me..."

Out on the cold, New York streets, I feel sick, empty, alone, and content. My coat smells of the drunken blindness and false comfort of last night's New Year's festivities. I look forward to the long walk and subway ride to the Upper East Side. Passing by the church, I feel somewhat at home and more at peace than I ever had when conscious. I find the number six, fall-walk down the littered steps, and pull out the magic token. I stand, waiting, assuming the lone, subway-rider stance. Within minutes, like the train to hell, the six screams beautifully to a stop and I find a seat far away from the few passengers residing in my car. I pull out my carefully concealed map and count the stops and time that I have to drift.

I used to think my secret place, the place where the thoughts are blind from adapting to the darkness, was my heart. I was wrong. It's my head. I'm no longer comforted with these safe thoughts. This realization, this shattering, has me scared that the thoughts that I have there make up who I'm supposed to be. When awake, I think, not normally, but about constellations of things, all at the same time. All of them give me new wrinkles, lines, and creases on this pale flesh. I never let them die, the worries, my precious experiments in the laboratory of my head. They just keep changing, colors, shapes, and magnitudes. It's no way to live, and I know it.

Looking up from my mental stupor, I see the station signaling my exit and I stand to move in front of the door. Will he be happy to see me? Do I really care if he isn't?

I shrug off this thought with unimportance, push my way through the opening jaw-doors of the subway car, and emerge into the dreary yellow-tiled station. I move out, up, into the world of cars and direction and feel the sidewalk become the catwalk once more. Stares and glances follow my steps as I move along, seemingly oblivious to the looks I get. It's part of being a woman I guess, learning how to look like you don't care, like you don't want anyone to hold at night, to adore, to fuck.

I arrive at his apartment and am not really surprised when he is indeed happy to see me. We have a nice, stale conversation and he makes the expected, token attempts to wile me, carelessly, into bed. I let them slide for lack of shock and surprise. Sex has never been of great importance to me, maybe my standards are too high. Maybe when I was a teenager, I read too many romance novels. Maybe I've been cheated and deceived one too many times. Maybe I'm happier getting screwed in the head, not the heart.

"A kiss to build a dream on"...

Suddenly, I feel the tugging again. Like a lover's breath, hovering in the static on a trans-Atlantic phone call, I can hear my unconsciousness calling me back. It usually takes longer for me to realize that even if I try, I can never find what I find in sleep, what the dreams give me. He is still talking, telling me about work, last night, what he has to do today, and I haven't heard one syllable. Like a child, I listen, thinking not of the moment, but of me, and where I need to be. I see he realizes my distance and I use this chance to inform him that I have to take care of a few things before I leave tomorrow. Pleasantries and good-byes later, and I'm finding my way back into my head, like a great beacon through the noise and broken dreams of this city. All I thought would make me happy, make me want to get out of bed more, instead, is pushing me back.

The impulse gets stronger as I get closer to the Financial District and soon I'm racing the few last blocks between the subway and my hotel. Up the elevator and down the hall, I can desperately feel the pulsing in my head and chest. I know it is different this time. I rush to the phone and dial.

"Mom, I want you to know...I do love you and I appreciate all you've done for me. But you don't have to worry about me anymore Mom. I found it. Tell Dad I love him."

"Honey, what is going on? Are you on drugs again? Why are you breathing so hard?" Oh Mother, always worried, never really listening.

"No, Mom, I'm okay, really. I've got to go now. Don't forget. Goodbye Mom."
I heard her protest, but I couldn't explain, so I hung up as quickly as I could and left the phone off the hook. I quickly scribbled something on a slip of hotel paper and got undressed. I put on the only really pretty thing I owned, a red, satin slip, and lay down to wait.

The pillow creased with the weight of my head and the mattress formed to fit this familiar shape like a lover's embrace.

"Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream..."