Russian Dolls in Tandem.

Russian dolls in tandem, sit deep on my windowsill. They are elaborately painted, varnished, reflect the light from behind me. There are five dolls in total. All face forward. Each doll stares into the back of the head of its respective elder. Except for the smallest. The only one which is not hollow, has not been bisected. It is the only doll which is whole. But it does not feel that way. This doll stands in defiance of the others. It has its back turned, a blue and red shell. It stares out of the window at the tear stained pane, and the giant oak which lies beyond it.

A blue origami elephant also stares, but this time into the white wall. I made it last week. It is sketchy, slightly malformed, a first attempt. I can see its reverse fold tail poking out from between two fragile hind legs. It sits on a copy of Love is a Dog from Hell. I made two. The second was much better. It has been sent to someone special in the post. These two baby blue effigies seperated by hundreds of miles. I am skilled at tearjerking. Do you feel it yet? I wonder if they think about each other at night. Maybe not. The elephant continues to stare into the wall.

III

Wake up, groggy, dry mouth. The sound of Fairytale of New York drifts up from below. Somewhere. What the fuck. It's summer for fucks sake. . . what the fuck. Today I'm going to go to the library, I swear on it. It's going to fucking happen. Trust me. But right now there is a pumpkin at the end of my bed. I don't know how it got there. It's so smooth and orange. Like a carrot, but round. And bulbous. I swing my feet out from beneath the covers and then snap them back so they rest above. The pumpkin is so smooth and orange on my feet. It hugs them with its no arms. It is my friend. I pet it with my feet. It feels nice. The pumpkin makes a creaking noise. "I love you" it creaks (or something to that effect). Fibrous and organic. In its own little way. Things get a bit intense and I leave.

Get out of bed. Walk downstairs. Each step moans under my feet. I wince after each one. I apologise under my breath after each one. “Poor souls” I say after each one. Each one seems to shout out to the next one. "Owww ooooh owww, watch out!" A chain of useless warnings. The guilt is consuming. Maybe I should go back to bed. Today is a bad day. Walk to the bathroom. Brush teeth. Usually 72 brushes. Left. Right. Left. Right. Always a problem knowing when to stop. Left or right? Things are uneven and unbalanced whenever I stop. Only one solution. Don’t think about it. Keep brushing. Right. Left. Right. Left. Okay now this is fucking ridiculous. Throw toothbrush on the floor. I can’t remember whether I stopped on left or right. Problem solved. The toothbrush lies on the floor, looking like a murder weapon, a short white toothpaste stain reaches out for it . . .

Fragments

The warbling sounds of King Crimson’s "21st Century Schizoid Man" sliced through the tainted air, the distorted chords and piercing saxophone searching out and probing even the darkest corners of the room. Sitting on my bed life seemed to resemble this song more than ever, the distorted guitar a musical representation of a peculiar strand of confusion, lingering inside my head like an impertinent smog, clouding rational thought. Only last week my life exploded, entering a new phase of disorder, I had become the 21st century schizoid man. My hands incessently trembled, and I couldn't sleep. The nights were now spent staring at the ceiling puzzling out what made all this happen. Any attempts to sit still were in vain, my legs always on edge, tapping, tapping, tapping, my body infused with some restless weakness which was wholly insurmountable. An incense stick burned in the corner of the room a tail of ash dropping off the end, the mesmerising smoke clouding the air, rising, forming, flowering, kaleidoscopic intricate patterns engulfing themselves, perfuming the room. Everything felt warm, numb, everything tingling and fuzzy, yet still unable to sleep, still tapping, dreaming, and dying, all over again; following that reptilian, screaming saxophone noise through the air with a single grubby index finger. I decided to get up, rolled off my bed, the disorientation extreme, yet, on my feet. Pull the curtains away from each other to reveal a darkness, sprinkled with illuminated windows of the neighbouring houses. I don't know what time it is. I sit for a while, watch a man walk from room to room, pacing, thinking. Another elderly woman battles with her small, almost rodent-like dog before closing the door on it. The small animal's slender whine reaches my ears through the double glazing and background music, it is somehow melodic. Walking to the door in the warm light of the room, I grip the handle, and pull, slowly. The door is heavier than usual, but relents. I languidly wander downstairs and sit down on the sofa. I begin to think this whole situation over. Only fragments of memory remain. The alluring sound of heels on cobbles, muffled laughter and the insatiable scent of dusk.

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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Untitled

I keep digging, deeper and deeper in the sand. My hands calloused and raw, from the beautiful friction. My hands claw away in this barren pit of filth, searching for the answers to the questions that are so unfathomable in their metaphysical paradoxes that they cannot be uttered, let alone entertained. This few cubic centimetres inside my brain is not enough. As I dig further down, the sand continues to cave in, replacing the areas where meaning, knowledge and thought were once held in pockets; shrouding them, once again, in mystery. As new pieces of the puzzle are uncovered, others are undeniably lost. Before I know it the sun is setting and this space which consumes me is deathly cold. A single, delicate, glass teardrop winds its way from my vacant eyes, perching momentarily on my chin, before hurtling down to perdition. My hair is thinning and my hands . . . my hands are so worn that their sensitivity has faded to such an extent that I do not even feel the beads of blood materialising through the skin anymore, in a kind of gruesome, organic, polka dot. I need this pain to feel alive, to acknowledge the beauty of it all. I need to dig further, deeper faster to reach the ever elusive answers which will ultimately destroy me and set me free . . . but they always escape. Nevertheless I keep digging in vain hope. I can't stop, deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper, until I suddenly realise. I must know when to draw the line in this sand. To step back and walk away.

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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT