Right now I’m having a schiz-out. I feel like a giant slice of death that’s been reheated in the microwave. It’s OK. I’m used to it. But, fuck, I miss feeling human. How did it get this way? When did it start? Christ, I don’t even know. How’s it going to end?
I’m so cold all the time. I find comfort in hidden places. The places no one knows I go. Like when brushing my teeth rhythmically. Balancing on the long side of the bath. Counting. One, two, brush, step. Stalk the knife-edge. It’s no more than a sole’s width. With perfectly pointed toes and stretched calves, my left leg extended in front, absolutely no arch, I tap the surface lightly with my big toe. A slow-motion can-can dentistry dance. Turn, walk, tap for four minutes exactly. Repeat as necessary. I own the bath, brush, beam. In that moment, I feel a little warmer.
I smoke. That helps. Speeding up death makes me feel more alive. Good health is just the slowest way to die. Smoke heats my lungs up. Makes me notice them. I think of my lungs as great oak trees and cigarettes as the obnoxious kid with a stick, flailing wildly in the branches, sending birds shooting out in every direction. Hmmm-haaaa, breathe in, breathe out. Dying feels good.
I like it when the delicate particles of dead ember reject the ashtray and go fluttering, flying up like tiny ghosts of dead butterflies. Beautiful. Yeah, I like to provoke my lungs, get them to fight back. People work the same way. BOOM! Like a firecracker, you can set people off so easily.
Oh yes. And a bit of white powder, a couple of pills, whatever. I do that now and then.