july, 2002

while trying to find the tracklisting for my last mix cd (11, not 12) i came upon this. it's not good, but it exists.

it's hard to be ashamed of someone else.

--

Everytime I walk through a dark room I can hear them. I can smell them. I can feel their eyes rolling across the length of my body. I don't know why I was the lucky one to be able to see these foul things. Why I was the pick of the litter. But I was born with it, and therefore I have to live with it. Everyday from now on, as far as I know. But I always have the hope that I can wakeup feeling free of this burden. Yet everyday for the past year, it has gotten progressively worse.

That first day was most likely the worst. I woke up feeling normal, until I looked out the window and saw it raining. It was that hard kind of rain. the kind that you think is going to dent the hood of your car. I was on my own at that point, so I made that comment outloud, although no one was there to hear it. What a great feeling that was. Living without wondering who or what is hearing what you say, or knowing what you think. I went into the bathroom to shower and shave and get ready for work. I stood over the sink looking at my sorry face and then smiled and laughed. Today was the day that I was going to be interviewed for my promotion. Fuck, I was nervous. I went into the shower, and washed every part of my body with my mind running through things which have absolutely nothing to do with anything. Like making up new lyrics for songs which already existed.

Have you ever slipped in the shower? Have you ever had the hopeless feeling of sailing across the tub and trying to grip for anything to stop you from falling, but the only thing you can touch are the wet, slippery walls, or toppling shower bottles. I hadn't fell in tub in years is the first thing i thought. Ouch was the next. I got up clumsily and as I was doing this i caught a glimpse of the blood running down into the drain. That's what I started to panic. I tried to wash the gaping wound above my eye brow as best I could, but it just kept bleeding. I turned off the shower and looked in the mirror.

Fuck. It was right above my eyebrow. I grabbed the washcloth and applied pressure. Why waste time? I started brushing my teeth. I went over the interview over and over in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. In the mirror, I could see the closed bathroom door. Here I am, living alone, and I still close the door to my own bathroom. I rinsed, spit, and put the toothbrush back in its home, and then turned nonchalantly to go back to my bedroom.

What I saw as I looked up was about as tall as my father but twice as wide. And it stunk like death. I dropped the washcloth as a sting and a shiver went through my entire body. As the bloodied rag hit the ground, he... it was gone. It had been nothing short of a second, yet I knew I saw it, and I knew I smelled it. And apparently, so was the gash above my eyebrow. But the cloth was still bloody and my head still stung where the wound had once been. Not having done drugs throughout my entire life, I knew that this wasn't some sick flashback. This had happened.