m a r i n e   d r i v e ,   n i g h t

Art thou pale for weariness / Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, / Wandering companionless / Among the stars that have a different birth, / And ever changing, like a joyless eye / That finds no object worth its constancy?
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822, To the Moon

At half past 2 in the morning even the dogs outside have fallen silent, and one begins to question oneself. It is pitch black and quiet except for the hum of distant electricity and sea waves, intermingled. There is nothing much to say, or write, tonight. The moment has passed, soured, like a posed smile that deteriorated, and I with it. There's a certain rawness of the stomach, the after-thoughts of hunger, and I drink a glass of cold water. Dinner and most things were too long ago.

I hadn't eaten since a rather depressing episode with porridge in the morning. I like to keep myself a little hungry; it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like the bite of pain to wake one up from the mediocrity of a well-fed stupor. Now, I feel my stomach tighten into a fist and clench hard and implode.

What I need is a shower and a purpose. I fall asleep and dream that I'm kissing a girl by the doorway with a map of nowhere in her hand. A thick viscous sleep that rises and falls and rolls with a deep troubled breathing and sucks one in and doesn't let go. I can't get out till midday and a long time. It is a terrible cycle, but sometimes it burps and coughs one out, and all that's left is a lingering stickiness and the dread that fuels a fickle sleep that’s hard to come by and plays with one’s mind when it does.

When I wake up, all I want to do is cry.

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