The ones before I’d never written or typed on a sheet, I have, though, drilled the words through my head in memories of dreams. Every night I dread coming home and going to bed, the vortex that envelopes my being is dreadful, truly, when I’m out, I occupy myself to the fullest. Not a moment passes when my mind is not busy, could be twitter, or friends or a book or a café.
I hate being alone in my room and bed because inadvertently there’s no more energy to be spent and exhausted at five in the morning I pray that I drop off into a dreamless continuous sleep.
That hasn’t happened. What does happen is that the moment my head hits the pillow all the thoughts that are dormant amongst the feathers and fibers seep through my hair follicles and squirm into my mind, they creep slowly at first and soon they gain momentum until I lose consciousness into that pause that’s called sleep.
I wake and it’s only been an hour or two, I sleep and wake again, I read the latest news on twitter and sleep. Restless they sense my consciousness and burst into life! I close my eyes against their invasion but they come through every other orifice that affects my being they won’t leave me alone.
You appear, from nowhere, in a restaurant, a café, your car. You appear by my side, facing me, smiling. Your side grin, your eyebrows lift in emphasis, the words of an old Iraqi song smiles through your lips. And that’s about when the tears start to well. And by some miracle, even then I’m not allowed the pleasure of weeping. You distract me and everyone else distracts me oo. They won’t leave me alone these thoughts of you.
I need to go now to shower and get dressed... The shower is another alone region. The water droplets drum their way as other thoughts of you become them. You are now touching my hair and your hand on my face and your smile as if to say that we will always be together in the same place.
And the water pours not washing anything except my hair and body. Rivulets form and I remember your hand. In mine. And your lips kissing them, kissing my hand. Your face in my palm. “it’s not that you’re attractive, but oh my heart grew active, when you, came .. into… view.. I’ve got a crush on you… sweety pie..” Ella sing my woes, sing my smiles sing my soul. “Embrace me.. my sweet embraceable you..” Frankie, you’re friends.. do something.. NO! not “Domani.. “ it is your way and his way… it is no longer my way.. but perhaps eventually, it is the way that I have known all along. “I want a little sugar in bowl, I want a little sweetness down in my soul”
You wrote me a letter, and another one too.. I haven’t received the second one.. the thing is I want that letter. It was written for me, by me through you but for me therefore, it’s rightfully mine! Please give me my letter even if all that in it is lies. How naked can I be? More naked than under the shower, more naked than in the darkness of my soul, more naked than when one is dead.
Perhaps this is not a letter after all. I would never write you as I write this! This! What is this except a form of conversation with my mind? Sure you won’t read it! You won’t remember the address… this! A schizophrenia of thoughts jumbled to form in-coherent emotions in word format. This! How sad.
“it’s not that you’re attractive but oh my heart grew active..” Yes I know, but that exactly what got me the regular joe.
Gotta go juss joe! Remember? Remember joe? Remember what you said fifteen years ago in Montreal?
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