Saturday, November 27, 2010

The Poets Lied, I am Denied

The title has nothing to do with the post. The title has everything to do with everything else. Cryptic, no? Ha! I'm like that only.

The real point of the post is this: Afternoon naps are the closest I'll ever come to seeing God. Afternoon naps are when my fears come alive, when my dreams die. Afternoon naps are oddly satisfying, and they leave with me with voids in places I never thought existed. Afternoon naps tell me, "You're a douche, everything is not going to be okay."

The breeze is carried in through the mesh on my window. Snatches of conversations outside the mess. The words float in the air, mocking me, watching me make a fool of myself. As the thin cream curtain billows to the purring of the blades of the brown fan on my ceiling, the words dissolve, and become something else. I imagine the rusty shutters behind my thin curtain. I think about getting up, pushing my curtain aside, and running my index finger up and down the shutters, and watch the red-brown flakes fall off. I think of it as a new start, but the afternoon manages to convince me that I'm a sucker for beauty. It seems to whisper from somewhere near my desk, "You're only romanticizing the breakdown. Again." I forget about heaving my upper body to set in motion the process of getting up and touching the flakes. I am drowsy. My sleep is dreamless, mostly, yet, when I wake up, it feels as if I've dreamt.

In the afternoons, I am convinced that there are indeed such things as ghosts, ghouls and wailing banshees. Not only of the past, but of the present and of the future. I'm oddly satisfied that I don't scream, don't pull my hair out and shout out loud. There is indeed beauty in the breakdown.

P.S: This one's for you, Fudge. For introducing me to the phrase 'beauty in the breakdown.'