I’ve spent the last several days wearing variations on black, gray, and white. Grayscale. It’s two in the afternoon and I’ve had two beers- the “champagne of beers”, Miller High Life, the snobby poor people’s PBR- one for each hour that I could justify past 11 AM. This afternoon I’m checking myself into the nuthouse.
On the plane home I prayed- literally prayed- for death. I saw the sun on the snow on Mount Ranier as we flew over and I imagined the comfort of ice and sharp rocks. I want to immolate, obliterate; the things I see in my head shame and scare me, my body broken and bleeding, a spike through my head. I’m not well. There are too many trains and high buildings in this country. Too many windows and ways to slip through.
So the nuthouse. That time again. So that I will still breathe and shit and do dishes and think things, and live to see 30. So that my child will still have a parent. So that words will still pass through me, enliven and electrify me.
The salmon will return soon. The salmon will return soon. They yearn for jump and smashing, they too yearn for love. I will rest with them in silt. I will leap against current and surface with them to flay my flesh with alien air and the seethe of sun. All summer I will watch their crossing. This is one thing. The salmon. Everything they want and break for is similarly doomed.
Fish out of water. I brushed my teeth today. Clean clothes and someone else’s socks. Each death plan I construct I share with a friend to pop, pip, a soap bubble overcome by the pressure of air. I did laundry, clean hot cloth, folded, packed. The suitcase now prepared for the emergency room, not New York City, not Philly, not love.
I want smoke and rivers. I want the comfort of the ocean smashing, the sting of phosphorence and bare bodies brushing in the dark. I want to be 15 again. I want to be 40. I want to be dead.
Please god if there is worth or meaning in me help me see past this lip of sadness. Hold me through the balloon of this break.