I+am+a+Sick+Man

I am a sick man … I am a spiteful man. I am he who has abandoned faith, an inspiration to something you would never ever choose to be. I am a monument to all that is gone, time has taken it toll, but I have stood the ages. I have watched as my world decayed and how my walls began to crumble, the foundations were melting and the waters were getting high. I struggled onto my rock, something to comfort me, some order and sanity, something to comfort me. I had a dream, a fantasy, an imagination of what could be. All my life I wanted to wake up from my deep sleep, this eternal slumber. I wished to feel purpose. I no longer wanted to hide within myself; I wanted to know what I had been hiding in my shadow. He is always there following me, like a stalking burglar, tainting everything I say. He’d stolen my soul away and I longed for it back, but first I needed answers, so I looked within his sack. You see this sack was a part of me, deep within the fabric of my being, like a cloth it needed to be unwound, unweaved, unspun, understood. I’d begun to understand it, I felt the answer close, and I felt her upon my skin and the warmth within her breath. She pried open my third eye, so I looked within myself and saw the monster deep inside, in sickness and in health. She brought the monster out and struck him to the ground, drowned him in her blood, my heart against my chest did pound. Such passion did we feel when we came together. No longer did I have to wallow in my own chaotic, insecure delusions, at last I knew myself to, if only to a small degree. Our souls connected and we were one. Our love expanded beyond the constraints of physical understanding. An absolute in communication between hearts and minds, we had reached a state of particular unity. We had a dream, a fantasy, and an imagination of what could be. Our love like energy and energy like ourselves, we would sail the stars in our universal unity on a vessel of sheer beauty. We had reached the highest form of contemplation, a love without scrutiny or criticism. A love devoid of superficiality or materialistic gain, but sure enough it was beautiful and remarkable and in her eyes it did glow, bright, fiery and passionate, like scorched earth, two desert pearls set in immaculate form, but our love was truly beautiful in its amorphic form. It was the highest and most desirable state of our souls: undemanding, unconditional love and we had achieved it. With time our love grew and so did the experiences with the exchange of our love in its manifested, physical and penetrative form. We danced and sang around the fires of own lustful desires and relished as the passion oozed from our being, so did the dance end in a blissful sigh and satisfied smile, as we lay tight in our padded cradle. Everyday was beautiful with purpose felt, we wandered free through the garden, and a little place we called Eden. We would spend some days just talking for hours about silly things, random things, and meaningful things, sometimes we would say that this was all a dream, that we were rowing our boats, merrily down the stream. I used to say, ‘if this is a dream, then I don’t wanna wake up’. I used to compare life to wonderland, ‘this is wonderland, you my Alice, lets see how far the rabbit hole goes’. She would say that I was the mad – hatter rabbit in that case. It seems so long ago now. Some days I’d get upset and angry. I’d lash out and strike things, then there’d be a crack in her porcelain face and salt would spill from her glass eyes, and sting my scarlet wounds that lurked beneath my brittle skin. The violence that caused such silence, her tongue had curled up and crawled down to form a stone in her throat. She was choking on words she could not swallow as I fed her my mind and false ideals. ‘Who are you, but my own reflection, suffocate on my toxicity, my vipers tongue, you steal off me, you cheated me, you cheat on me, and you’re shoving me down’. Her finger was on my trigger, as I banged my head against the fault line. The walls were screaming or was it the air; I was wounded, so I crawled into my corner. She pressed the attack, like the monkey on my back, scratching at my neck, peeling my sanity away, tickling my morality. I had to escape, I had to be free, and I had to do what the voices were telling me. The screams, the demon in my closet, I am staring down the hole again; this bottle is my only friend. I tore her flesh and split her open, like peeling an orange, her flesh was bare and ripe for plunder. I took what I wanted, plucked the fruit until she was bare. She was strewn on the floor, like a mangled rag, a porcelain doll all bruised with pink blemishes, her clothes a canvas with a splash of red, red and more red. ‘Remember, I will always love you’, I said, as I clawed her ruby throat away. Then she was on the wall, on me, in my mouth, warm and wet, rose red. I sat there as I watched it trickle down and collect in a shimmering pool. I looked into those sumptuous eyes to be met by a desert stare, the fires had died, leaving a murky, stale smoke that bellowed from the chimneys of her soul. Then I fell asleep with her on my chest. That seems so long ago. Now I am old and the walls are always white, the nights are cold and my sustenance is a little yellow pill. It’s not all bad, I have lots of friends. They all hang out with me. Still, I think it’s amazing how many people they can fit into this one tiny room. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if they’re really there.

M.Wasiniak