Black by Trisky
I once had a dream in pitch black, colors swirling into nothingness behind the iris of my mind's eye. The sound of black echoed in the empty hollow of voices, a cacophony of shrillness piercing my eardrums. I gulped for air that seemed immobilized in my lungs. Limbs thrust out, grabbing me from all directions, my own useless in fighting back, numb and paralyzed. All I could see was the gleam of coal colored distortion, somewhere beyond my scope of vision. I could feel myself reaching out, trying to grasp it in my mind, but every part of me was useless in fighting the inevitable. The further I reached out, the further it retreated and the closer it seemed and the further I'd reach, again, and the closer voices got, the further I retreated, the more the limbs pressed up against me, the less I could respond, the less I could breathe. Groping, grasping, reaching, unable to breathe, unable to see, could not hear. I dreamed of black, the absence of color, only it wasn't a dream. I was wide awake, as I am now. It seems like a lifetime ago, but my clock tells me otherwise, 2:45a.m. Made it in, with time to spare. I haven't yet remembered to forget that I don't have to follow rules anymore. I can come and go as I please, when I want, stick my tongue wherever the hell I damn well please, on as many different occasions as my extra sensory devices will allow, and since it's never disallowed anything or anyone in the past, that could take up quite a bit of time. I don't know when I'll be able to squeeze it in, between ad mock-up's and fucked up copy, extra curricular pharmacological experimentation, finding something to fill those drawers that are currently occupied by endless pairs of khakis. Khakis for Christ's sake. I'll have to cover up the bare space on the walls, every last fucking inch in plaid wallpaper if I have to, just as long as I don't have to see what's no longer there. Maybe I can have my table back, and not have to trip over those damn wires in the middle of the night, stumbling back from my middle of the night cravings for that sugar and fat he calls food, which might open some time up, since I won't have to sweat my ass off, as often, working out all that temptation. On the other hand there are a lot of things I'll have to relearn that'll take up even more of my time, washing my own back, letting myself relax before I wake up in the morning instead of acting like a human alarm clock, repeating the *tick tick* of "Justin wake the fuck up" over and over, *tick, tick, tick* "wake the fuck up", *tick tick tick*. I'll have to remember who used to wash my underwear before, such a stupid thing, haven't really thought about that in months, it was always just clean and available, I kind of took for granted how it got there after a while. I'll have to recall how to work in silence, if it wasn't the music, or the lip smacking sounds he made in concentration, or the way he'd toss dishes and splash the water all over the place, like he'd lost his interest in it, the minute he was satiated, it was his incessant yapping. I wonder why I hadn't noticed how quiet he'd become, lately. I'll have to figure out how to sleep alone, I have no recollection of how to do that, not one fucking clue. I know it requires closing your eyes and relaxing your body, but all I see when I close my eyes is black, and all I feel as I lay is a vice grip seizing my mangled skeletal structure, molding it into a broken pile of shattered bone, pricking my skin. I'll have to remember that the exhale follows the inhale...
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