Stream of Consciousness

Discussion in 'Family, Friends and Relationships' started by Neuropedia, Oct 8, 2010.

  1. Neuropedia

    Neuropedia Member

    I want to have an out of body experience. In my body I feel like I am going to explode. I hate my body. I hate being in my body. I hate being. I want to see my self how others see me. And see if all the flaws I self consciously invent are real. I want to know. I want to know if I look normal, because I never felt normal. I want to know my own mannerisms. I want to see myself outside myself because I can never see my self and I feel entrapped by my subjective experience. I am trapped by subjectivity and the biases of my experiences. I feel like I am going to explode. I want an out of my body and I want out of my mind. I want to cut my experiences from my self, from my body, from my mind and start over. I want reincarnation, not a razor cut rebirth. I could sleep for the rest of my life just to process what has happened so far.

    I want that summer back. The whole thing. The blisters, the buses, the kissing, the thistles on my bare legs and my canvas shoes. My innocence and the last days of childhood. I want to relive the night. When he held me down, kissing me and telling me he loved me while I cried and screamed; drunken mess. Beautiful Mess. fucked up, bloody, cut, scarred mess. My bare legs. Bare feet. I remember how I ran. Alone. Concrete and the fluorescent glow of gas stations, and dirty punk boys who were too young to understand. How they took me home, crying. Sobbing. Even thought they were too young to understand, they took me home, crying. Slept with me on my floor, and talked about drugs and anarchy while I was paralysed.

    We never went for walks after that. He never sneaked out at one am to hold my hand in the orange illumination of city nights. He never held my hand in the park, with the thistles and the dry grass; and my bare legs never scrapped against his bicycle chain. He never kissed me under the overpass. Instead I lay alone, on the bathroom floor, every night. My skin illuminated orange. While he was too young.

    The other, too old, too weary and burdened. Poured me full of tar and sweet nothings. Ignored my tears as he fucked me. Condemned me to invalidity for my age. For my youth. For my innocence. He ignored my tears and my scars to believe that I was. To believe it was okay for him to fuck me and love me and leave me when he felt young again.

    I am ancient.