Sniffing Glitter…Not
The constant clicking of the clock, why won’t it stop? It drones on and on without pause, mocking my insomnia. The steady beat seems to be a song for the silence, playing off the cracked walls to the water-stained ceiling.
The Beethoven of the dead roses.
Everything sits still, in place. Perfect at this time and moment until activity starts up and the apartment becomes a bustle of laughter and screams. The mirror in my bedroom sits quiet and comfortable as it sleeps. Tomorrow it will be flipped and broken, smashed to pieces as I throw a bottle at my reflection. My friends of insomnia, I greet them again as I sit here alone.
The dripping of the broken sink, Act 5. The stillness of the royal fruit bowl, a class act of art. Like the black spot on the white canvas… people actually pay for this shit.
My therapist says I should take more medication, relax more, exercise more, and work more. Tell your doctor you have insomnia and she’ll give you a schedule for a thirty-two hour day and a prescription for sleeping pills. The truth is that if I told my therapist about the clicking clock, the dripping sink, the royal fruit bowl, she’d have me committed.
Today, or yesterday I suppose, I chose to tell my therapist about the first story I ever wrote. It was about a bad game of Russian roulette. She stared at me from across the table and asked me how I felt.
Fine, I told her… fucking marvelous.
Last week I told her about the enjoyment I get from late night supermodel shows. And she asked me if I had a history of schizophrenia. The first day I went in and she asked me if I feel disturbed. I said no, I just love throwing money at some big shot, expensive therapist. The truth is, I sit up every night, listening to my little dining room orchestra. Maybe tonight we’ll hear a piece by the squeaky window sill. A dramatic interpretation by the sofa lint. And I tell my therapist, no… I’m not squatting. No, I’m not crazy. And no, to the best of my knowledge, no one in my family ever played bass for Metallica. The questions are as constant as my midnight shows .The truth is that for every petal that falls from the wilted rose,
I’m thirty seconds older, not a moment wiser, and only minutes away from my death bed.
…
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Turquoise
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