10.3.24 / 2:27 am

i think it’s futile, rest. the biggest relief, the most selfish of indulgences. my mind creates little titles and definitions for sleeping and i find it’s tattooed on me, my lack of ecstasy. in the great blue circles that bed beneath my eyes does lay my past my future my present.  are those from lack of sleep, i’m asked. yes…no…its complicated. i look upon the fight club narrator with hunger as he moans about his sleepless existence and i find in his smears of dark flesh that sameness is righteous and tender and shyly seductive when it’s rendered with a bit of mania. it is exhaustion that translates to shamelessness, to effortlessness (i tell myself) and when spilling out from a car chasing after the dame one desires is outfitted with hysterics and a cadaverous physique, does it not seem all the more thrilling? what beasts, the shameless! i tell myself it is shamelessness that sits beneath my eyeballs and makes its home on my skin. perhaps it is all some sort of performance. perhaps it is all an act. maybe i’m acting right now, getting ready to chase my little marla down the street and shake her like a doll, cigarette lolling from her lips. maybe i’m in some big hollywood production and it’s all just makeup that will be wiped off at the end of the day. the questions will cease. but probably not because i’m lying in a yellowed bed and the whole city is asleep. millions of chests rising and falling in a pretty little rhythm, but in a hot side room in some second story apartment i sit and collect dust and the purple moons my great grandma brought over from austria get their morning shoes on and stamp a tidy rhythm within my mind all night long.

photo found on pinterest