Out of everything she tried, anxiety was my sister's favorite intoxicant.
"I know I worry too much," she confessed to me over the phone. Elaine was calling at 3 am from a phone booth on the Las Vegas strip and she was the one worried about me, having(more) been overtaken by a feeling that something 'just wasn't right.'
"But the more I fear death, the more I feel more alive," she slurred. "And the more I fear for others, the more I forget about the bullshit. It just drops away like apples from a tree." That was the last time I spoke to her.
I turned her sketchbook over in my hands and lifted it to my nose. The musty smell of my motel room couldn't mask the scent of her floral cologne, which on even her least lucid mornings she managed to dab on each wrist.
"Eddie and me" was written underneath a pencil drawing on the last used page of the notebook. A tree, bare save for the apples that hung off its knotty branches, stood surrounded by its fallen leaves. Cradled by the branches was a man on his back eating an apple. His eyes were completely filled in; lightless and stone-cold. The next ten pages suffered indentations from her fiercely penciling them in.
I ran my fingers over the gun sitting next to me on the bed. I know she wouldn't want it this way, but she would understand. Because my favorite drug? It's revenge.(less)
The words in my mouth are combing together so seamlessly. I am lost, irretrievably, and all that is succinct is the pain in my ears. A ceaseless wringing. A sickness so constant and so pressured that it feels as if my skull is going to explode. Sometimes I wish(more) it would.
How many times can the sun eclipse before you in some array of beauty before something in your mind snaps and that little soul inside you rears up with whiplash. There's so much pain around me. So much pain inside my tiny chest. What to do with it? I haven't a fucking clue.
So I will carry on with my chatter mouth and my eager tongue. I will talk and I will taste and I will love wearily and with much anguish. I will carry on like a strange being, only I am still longing to let down my load and be calm, if even for a moment.
Everything I write is so cryptic. Every word like one but multiplied. I have multiple personalities and too many glasses of wine and somehow, despite it all, I have found a man that I will love until the day I die. What can I make of such an inexplicable bliss?
I am consumed by this moment and by future ones. By future bottles of wine that hang before me as halos. I love to be drunk and I love to be gone and I love to feel a little piece of my heart slipping off into the distance.
There is too much chaos and too little chaos. I am wild and free and yet my every inch is chained. Chained by conscience, chained by endless rumination, chained by the guilt and the shame and the sadness rising up again like waves. (less)
As I crawl between the sheets every night, longing for the shadowy tendrils of sleep to pull me away, I run headlong and recklessly towards the edge of consciousness. Resolve rarely meets the expectations of my ambitions, and as the thoughts in my mind percolate and trickle down through(more) to my legs, the whole motion comes to a grinding halt. Since when does a fear of heights stop a dreamer? Back and forth I go, making charges to the precipice, balking at the sights lying below, stop, and walk back inland.
In time, either sheer determination, or a slip of the foot, will catapult me into the sky. Leaving the edge of reality behind, where solid ground and comfort lays behind, to find a new home in the dreams beyond. There is nothing to slow the fall, and looking to the waves crashing on the stone below, I wish for some safety and comfort in the world I leave behind. A rope, a parachute, wings.
Nothing of that sort is to be had. Headlong I plummet to meet the dark, blue void beneath. The impact is violent, the water is freezing, and as it fills my lungs the panic sets in. Flailing and thrashing, trying to remember which way was up, the blankets get thrown aside and a new day beckons. With squinting eyes, I do not welcome it, let alone look forward to the process to be repeated in the evening.
But still, those few, fleeting moments of freefall, will not be forgotten. The freedom and exhilaration that filled the moments between safety and panic will not be easily dismissed. Its allure is all too powerful, and when night falls, it will not be denied.(less)