It never snows where I live. It always does where I. How do you think Frost would’ve felt if he’d been frostbitten? Which Frost? Robert? Jack? Aren’t you sleepy? I’ll sleep when I die. Will I slip when I die? Will I die when I slip? ‘For the dead travel fast.’ How much farther do we have to go? Farther. Farthest. Measure in miles. And miles to go before I slip. And miles to go. Before. I. Slip.
Your spark has died, sister. Perhaps you would like to light it up again? Rumpelstiltskin offers to help. Yah, sure, where are the matches? Do you have a lighter? Would you light my fire, sir? He laughs like that character from that cartoon. It shouldn’t be hard. You just have to think outside the box. Yes. Think outside the box. Get out of the box – just to get into another. Ah-oh, I’m not allowed to talk like this. I’m not allowed to talk at all. I’m allowed to run. I’m allowed to hide. Keep everything in, as much as you can, for as long as you can. It’ll do you good, trust me. Yes, master. Repression, repression, repression – bottle goes pop.
My hypocrisy sickens me. Fear, fear, fear, so encompassed by fear… Abominable, it nauseates me. I am no different. How do I, then, blame others for being the same way, for doing the same things that I do—hell, for not doing the same things that I do not do? Writing about the fifth of November… The only revolution I’ll ever be a part of is the one taking place in my head. Torchbearer of solipsism. Anything I’ve ever written about anything is a lie.
‘Remember, remember the fifth of November’…
Oh the snow globe! Oh the bell jar! I wait for it to burst, I wait for it to shatter, to fall into pieces… Tiny little pieces of a tiny little puzzle that you try oh so hard to keep together. Your precious little puzzle with a precious little picture that is not there. Tape the pieces together, stick them with glue, spend your entire life doing just that. How do you, pray tell, run after something that does not exist? Do you not feel the lack of peace that I have been feeling? Do you not feel the chaos? Or is it just my sky that is falling? I wait for your sky to fall. I wait for the poster to tear behind which you hide so comfortably. I wait for the fifth of November.
Bug sprays do not work anymore. Ants crawling all over the place. Symbiosis, symbiosis, long-dreaded symbiosis… Has it started again? Should I try and find the undo button? Should I go for a retry? I keep having flashbacks. I keep zoning out. I do not sleep. ‘In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep.’ Someone knocks on the door. Not my door. I don’t have no door. I laugh with my face down on the pillow. ‘“Why do you laugh?” I said. “Is it because you hate the sound of laughing?”’ How could you possibly have said everything that I would ever want to say? My head hurts. I do not finish what I started. I start what I finished.
I won’t tell you. I won’t tell you anything about it. Because I don’t know. I scratch my head, something inside itches. I stay mad at the men I was with for reasons uncertain. I tell people that I don’t hold a grudge. I also tell them that I don’t forget. Patient. Be patient. I snap at people who tell me to be patient. I declare with pride that I have the patience of a monk. They tell me I am bipolar. I don’t listen. I tell myself I am bipolar. I don’t listen. I stand still in front of approaching buses. People talk. And oh how they talk! They have so much going on. To me, nothing ever happens. And imagine my audacity, I intend to write! With nothing ever happening in my life, with not ever making anything happen. The three dogs barking had more calm within them. I arrange five sentences in my head every day. And you think they know me.
‘Death, be not proud’
‘Death, be not proud’
‘Death, be not proud’
Drip drip drip drip drip, drops of death fall down from the ceiling. I sit still on my chair, in front of my desk. I keep my door locked. I plan not to get out. I plan to write. Notes from Underground. The ghost of Dostoyevsky smiles. How deep down will you go? I’m a skeptic, sir, and a cynic. I intend to hate humankind from the depths of my being. Want to join me? I try to brainstorm. Bits of my brain fall on the paper and soak it. Brain storm, brain rain. How deep down will you go? How deep down will you DROWN? They said pour your soul out on the paper. I poured my soul out on water. I do not swim, sir. Hello? HELLO? Do you hear me? He said I’m a lot like Sylvia Plath. Should I kill myself? ‘Death, be not proud’… Oh, why shouldn’t it? I do not write about him, my pen stops, my pen drips ink. Closer… closer… closer… Closure. I seek for closure. My friend dresses in pink. Try me, she says, what is wrong with you? God is dead, I say. Oh no, not me, Nietzsche, it was him. I just say that God is overrated. Have you met him? Or is it a her? Why did she call her daddy a bastard, this Sylvia Plath? Why do you read so much? Oh yes, my ex was an atheist. I do not write about him. Closure. My friend is getting married. I keep my journal hidden. Why wouldn’t you come to my wedding, he says. Yah, why wouldn’t you go, she asks. How does it feel, that he’s getting married? I don’t know. I just watched On the Road. I don’t find the book anywhere. Why do you read so much? I don’t know… So that the words can dance around me. ‘Man is condemned to be free’. Do you write poetry, kid? Gee, everything you write becomes poetry. My friend plans not to get out of the house after three years. What do you plan to do? I plan to write till my hand falls off. What would you write? Nothing, perhaps. My pen gets lost in water. My pen sinks.