I am digging in the dirt
no, not dirt, its earth
the difference matters to Rose
The dirt falls from his fingers
plays a hollow tune
earth soon will cover the spot
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Shuffle
"So", he asks, "what do you really want? What are your hopes for the future?"
I exhale slowly. Smoke clouding my face, eyes squinting, shielding, from the acrid sting. I am temporarily hidden from view, able to think, to evade. I come back.
"What I want", I reply, "is to no longer endure these banal conversations, your persistent and ineffectual efforts to invade the personal space of my mind.
I wish to taste no more the bland cuisine of the cafeteria. The poached fish, the grey meat, the soft, mutely colored vegetables and perhaps most offensive of all, the utterly flavorless coffee".
In my dreams I am transported far from the endless shuffle, shuffle, shuffle of slippers across the floors. My slippers. Everyone's slippers. No - not everyone - staff don't shuffle. Staff are superiorily silent. Floating through wards like fish through the ocean.
My fantasy takes me to colors that are real, sea green, apple green, olive green, burgundy, cherry red, salmon pink, lemon yellow, sky blue. No more, the washed out, no-color walls, the tired beiges, the faded greys that drain me of vibrancy as surely as the medications ebb away my will.
Unstable, you say. Too unstable to leave. To wear real clothes and shoes. To breathe fresh air, taste freedom. So, because you say unstable I remain stabled. Put away in my stall, safe and unsound. Slowly, slowly drowning in mediocrity, in obscurity. Until, inevitably, your persistence finally pays off and I lay down, defeated. Worn down to the nub, ground down by blandness and talk therapy.
I exhale slowly. Smoke clouding my face, eyes squinting, shielding, from the acrid sting. I am temporarily hidden from view, able to think, to evade. I come back.
"What I want", I reply, "is to no longer endure these banal conversations, your persistent and ineffectual efforts to invade the personal space of my mind.
I wish to taste no more the bland cuisine of the cafeteria. The poached fish, the grey meat, the soft, mutely colored vegetables and perhaps most offensive of all, the utterly flavorless coffee".
In my dreams I am transported far from the endless shuffle, shuffle, shuffle of slippers across the floors. My slippers. Everyone's slippers. No - not everyone - staff don't shuffle. Staff are superiorily silent. Floating through wards like fish through the ocean.
My fantasy takes me to colors that are real, sea green, apple green, olive green, burgundy, cherry red, salmon pink, lemon yellow, sky blue. No more, the washed out, no-color walls, the tired beiges, the faded greys that drain me of vibrancy as surely as the medications ebb away my will.
Unstable, you say. Too unstable to leave. To wear real clothes and shoes. To breathe fresh air, taste freedom. So, because you say unstable I remain stabled. Put away in my stall, safe and unsound. Slowly, slowly drowning in mediocrity, in obscurity. Until, inevitably, your persistence finally pays off and I lay down, defeated. Worn down to the nub, ground down by blandness and talk therapy.
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