That Pallid Sustenance
You draw me closer with one hand while the other holds the dagger, blade ready.
Isn't it a shame, I thought, this whole human state of affairs. The way we're cruel to everyone else, never admitting that the one we'd really like to beat up is ourselves. I was in downtown cleveland today with a bunch of rich catholics and I watched as people were sent immediately into a state of panic at the slightest deviation from the schedule, the utter inability to think and decide without at least the corroboration of one other person. I marvelled at how any of the service people could keep their cool dealing with rude suburbanites all day and the only logical explanation that came to me was that they probably practise voodoo.
I wonder how frequently other people think about different ways to die. I can't stop thinking about Nick, and I've even been dreaming of him nearly every night. I keep creating scenarios in my mind that would have prevented his death, and the fucked up thing is that anchored to these scenarios is the actual indefatigable belief that in some way I could go back and enact one of said scenarios. As if they buried him alive and all I have to do is find him, and retrieve him. But now we must pick up every piece of the life we used to love, just to keep ourselves at least enough to carry on. I will get old, probably, and he'll always be twenty-five.
A hot piece of sandstone in the pit of my stomach prevents me from sleep tonight. Gravity. Someone tonight beseeched god to keep our country safe from terrorists and evil, and I thought how silly, we are bombing the shit out of his son's homeland.
Isn't it a shame, I thought, this whole human state of affairs. The way we're cruel to everyone else, never admitting that the one we'd really like to beat up is ourselves. I was in downtown cleveland today with a bunch of rich catholics and I watched as people were sent immediately into a state of panic at the slightest deviation from the schedule, the utter inability to think and decide without at least the corroboration of one other person. I marvelled at how any of the service people could keep their cool dealing with rude suburbanites all day and the only logical explanation that came to me was that they probably practise voodoo.
I wonder how frequently other people think about different ways to die. I can't stop thinking about Nick, and I've even been dreaming of him nearly every night. I keep creating scenarios in my mind that would have prevented his death, and the fucked up thing is that anchored to these scenarios is the actual indefatigable belief that in some way I could go back and enact one of said scenarios. As if they buried him alive and all I have to do is find him, and retrieve him. But now we must pick up every piece of the life we used to love, just to keep ourselves at least enough to carry on. I will get old, probably, and he'll always be twenty-five.
A hot piece of sandstone in the pit of my stomach prevents me from sleep tonight. Gravity. Someone tonight beseeched god to keep our country safe from terrorists and evil, and I thought how silly, we are bombing the shit out of his son's homeland.
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