there is something about coming back to an empty house. you let the mess be. the clothes strewn all over. the dishes, unwashed for days now. the mechanical turning of the key - to lock oneself inside. safe, we would like to believe. retracting into the familiarity of the room - with the tv, the air conditioner, the laptop, the bed - nothing you could call yours, and yet all things that you appropriate... you look around, the bed's too big for you. you fill the vacuum with extra pillows that you'd never use, blankets, books that you never read, kevin and bernard - your stuffed 'toys' that have stayed, technology - tv remote, set top box remote, ac remote, cell phone, laptop...you think changing the bed spread, the furniture arrangement would change something. You wish.
The house is a mess. a dumping ground, the women would say. everything that used to be safely locked, or even stashed behind cupboards and shelves meant only for the private eye is now in full public view. Every horizontal surface has a vertical to it. Nothing's empty. and yet no matter what all you bring in, or bring out, one emptiness will never be filled. it stays. you are only too aware of it. now, you are too tired to run. to even walk. you lie in bed. staring at the ceiling, as the tv plays, through the night...hoping to close your eyes and drift away into thoughtlessness...many sheep, stars, memories and nightmares later, you think you're finally there. you wake up countless times. watch strange scenes play out on the television, and find yourself unable to distinguish between the images on the screen and your own dreams, wakeful dreams. dreamy consciousness. force yourself back to slumber. sometimes it comes easy. the going back where one came from...when there's nothing else waiting for you. it will all go on. they tell you - so will you...the window reflects the fragmented self in the dark of the night. and strangely the hope of morning seems redeeming no longer.
so one more night it shall be. decadence.
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