Hey you! Do ask me things. How I am doing. What I am doing… anything. It’s high time you start acknowledging the fact that I’m right here, for good, plugged to you, becoming mad multiples of you. Oh, do stop shrieking and clutching yourself! Isn’t it becoming a cliché? Here, let me tread by invisibly; let me wave my long dark hair. My lidless eyes and abnormally fitted limbs are just props you have built up. They should have restricted your TV time.
Pity you were not easily moved in the beginning. But now I see you have noticed the air radiating a grey dread and a strong fever-smell. No, don’t go to those counsellors again! Stupid charlatans all of them! Really. Your dreams mingle with my wakefulness as I prowl around inside your head feeling the bumps on the wall, the phantom doors, whorls and vortexes – some quite big and static shaped like vague Jurassic animals - their low-frequency hums too soft for your mortal eardrums. When I flit between them, you hear the rush and rumbles in your ribs. Others are so tiny and constantly moving that they get caught in your hair, their tiny shifts sounding like a child’s whispers to you. There, you are pausing again, your hair standing on end, sweat breaking. How adorable you look when chills run down your spine!
Do you know that you DO sleep even though you believe otherwise? The elusive sleep which, when it comes, comes in annoying jerks. The sticky sleep, freezing legs, sweating neck, nausea, a kind of horrible oppression, so sickly sweet – I feed off your sleep, they taste of stale almonds, detergent and melting toffee. And then, and then, there is the dawn… the dawn that falls like a brilliant blob of lucidity, a tear drop, a splash from an old perfume bottle, a melted piece of ice. It’s so edible, so limpid that if you touch the air, it trembles, like a butterfly’s wings. Do you notice them? I wish I could tell you all about it. I wish I could scoop up a piece of dawn in my cupped hands and show it to you. But that would defeat the purpose. No, I don’t disappear at day break; I stick around all the time, until the right time. I see you trying to meditating, taking deep breaths – for a moment you heave a sigh of relief until you catch a glimpse of my jawless, winged figure just beyond the corner of your eye. There is only one ending to this story, you know that.
It rained yesterday while I was waiting for you, and then all night while I was grappling with a nightmare that was wringing your throat. Have you tried choking yourself? The pain on your throat is unbearable, but there is a bizarre, peaceful silence in your ears, a kind of numbness of the cheeks and if you look at the blank white wall, you can see a swirl of softly pulsating rainbows, your finger tips turn cold. Darling, shall I strangle you? Would you strangle yourself?
You are late, and you slide in through the window. I am always reminded of a thundercloud, an impending storm looming in the air when you enter. You don't notice my transparent feet swinging from the fan's cobwebby blades, nor the eyes at the end of my feelers dangling down, crawling all over you. My quagmire-voice drips with trepidation as I hover close to your ear. I can see you twitching your neck uneasily and I know you’ll dream of unattainable ice-creams or of drowning in dark lake full of tangled weeds tonight. I move closer to you all the while laughing my carefully designed laugh - the half-wit laugh, the mirthless laugh, a jawless, rasping laugh - the laugh your neighbour’s son heard before he jumped off the 8th floor, the one Virginia Woolf heard while she filled her pockets with stones, the one that Sylvia was hounded with all her life, and Judas heard just before kissing an affable bearded cheek. It is the right time, darling, all of us are waiting for you right here. Be careful, mistakes are pretty painful and second chances are tough.
Photo by NONA LIMMEN