life with sticks in one's head


leave a comment »

I went to bed last night about a quarter to one. Bed, that is, not sleep. I lay there, having wrestled through a few pages of reading and been “pinned” I believe they call it, all I could do is wriggle around in my head with ill-defined anger, the remnants of my fast-fading patience, and the sense that, once again, my brain is out-doing my mind, adjusting and reacting to everything done to it. Placed in a holding pattern that will never be lifted — there won’t be a landing, only an agonizingly slow crash in which I do not cry out for help or beat the living shit out of the pilot or make much of a fuss at all. I’ll just quietly undo my seatbelt, shrink into my seat, and wish this is the last failed holding pattern, that this crash, while engulfing me in piercingly white flames, will actually kill me, or at least leave me so wounded and so far from the airport that I will die, as quickly as possible.

I awoke to pee at about quarter to twelve, and then slunk passively back into the warmth of my bed. At some point (half past one, perhaps?), my father brought me a cup of coffee. Lying there, I wished porously for sleep again. I may have drifted away a bit, but soon enough I could hear their voices, in the kitchen under my room, articulating their fears and worries. What a shit I feel.


Written by sticksinthehead

27 February 2010 at 4:56 pm

Posted in The Mind/Brain

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: