Waking up the same dream
Motion Picture Soundtrack; Radiohead Red wine and sleeping pills Help me get back to your arms Waking up each morning was no longer peaceful – no slow, gentle lull of sunlight kisses on skin. No more five more minutes as hands pull the duffel over her frame, encased in a cocoon of safe satisfaction; everything here was mind-numbing to an extent and a knee-jerk reaction don’t die / don’t die / don’t die. Yet living like this (ransacking shops, avoiding what few other people had mysteriously appeared here – like a vagrant, a rat), the brunette thinks maybe it would’ve been easier to snuff herself out like a flame. But she wonders; if death does not come to those who seek it? Will she end up gasping into consciousness again in the centre of (this universe)? Cheap sex and sad films Help me get back where I belong Context of time and space is a lost momentum in this place. Buraku— the few scattered remnants of items left behind explains. Newspapers left orderly in once-occupied houses are part of what she remembers about the first time she was here: the coffee on the table behind rows and rows of unlocked doors were still hot. That someone had been here just, perhaps, minutes before her appearance. Were they avoiding me? Running from.. me? It had made no sense – not a shred of explanation available on undated newspapers that drew blank pages after blank pages; the porridge bowl of a child still warm even after what felt like weeks—— How long was a week? Seven days; twenty-four hours each, sixty in an hour. Sixty in a second. I think you’re crazy, maybe I think you’re crazy, maybe Glancing at the clock on the wall, Leaf allowed a small, almost hysterical smile to break from her composed facade. 1200 it says – always 1200 / 1200 / 1200. She turns to the glass separating the interior of her abode and the exterior outside that had begun to waken as much as death could. There are no birds chirping, naught a gentle breeze nor sun unfurling. A still expiry to which she clenches her fists so tightly that it draws blood from the soft of her palms—
What she wouldn’t do to watch this city collapse under its own paradox.
