Vexed To Nightmare

Every night a different nightmare. But each featuring the same person. My mother. Last night I dreamt she was not really dead, that we had buried her alive. Dadda figured it out and we had to dig her up again. And she spent her Renaissance preparing for Julie's wedding which had already happened. Before she died.

I have no idea what it means. I just know that when I wake up I have less and less desire to live.

She Calls

I've been dreaming of her every night; troubled dreams...and now my body is wracked with fever and coughs and keeps expelling food almost before I've finished eating. Now objects lose their fixity and meaning and there is an absence of desire.

Many many times I have felt like I'd like to cast off this garment and slip away but each time there was something holding me back. But now faces grow dim and voices muffled. I don't remember why I am here and delaying the inevitable because I have not really lived or left my mark on the surface of this earth (any different from drawing pictures in the sand) seems futile. And illogical.

Breathing to go on breathing makes no sense.

And she calls.

Every night, in fact every sleep is spiced with troubled nightmares, and I toss and turn and writhe in agony. And whimper.

Because she calls. She talks rubbish, tells me untruths that I can pick apart even in my sleep-drugged state and I wake up and curl under blankets unwilling to expose my face to the harsh light of day, unwilling to stagger out of bed to meet people who imagine they are fixed forms doing God's own work and not jellies, not transparencies...

What am I to do? She calls. And I feel nothing. And I don't care if I answer or if I don't. Except that I'm weary. Except that I wish I could rest.

The Shreds Of My Life

These are the shreds of my life. I can't make them reconcile, cohere. There is no Grand Narrative. Only side stories that veer off into little drains off the corners. Until everyone forgets what they were supposed to be about. No central theme. Only fragments of this thing. And that. I can't connect the threads. It's like I've had too much whisky, my love. Or too much wine.

I stopped knowing who I was a long time ago.

And I stopped caring.

So how does a life like this end?

How long till I stop pretending to care?