sour feelings
Talking.
I've tuned out. Its nothing important anyways. Just empty words, or at least that's what I tell myself.
So I sit there and lay my head back on the wall and ***** keeps talking and I keep half listening.
A question is asked of me. Pointless. Confrontational. I answer, "Yes," and leave it at that. But the question still lingers in my mind and I feel I should have answered in another way.
Whatever.
I sit there and the light is dim and I have the feeling in me that something bad is about to happen, but I don't know what. I've had this feeling for the last three days. Don't know why.
The talking is unnerving.
Another questions is asked, again confrontational, at least thats what I think, and I don't like being confronted when I feel like this and I snap out an answer, this time, and its clear that I'm on the edge.
I sit there and ***** keeps talking. And I'm wondering why I have this feeling.
I stare, but look at nothing. I'm lucid. Usually its good to talk with *****. Makes me feel alright. Don't know why I don't feel alright tonight. And ***** sounds different anyways and theres' something in that voice that is sinister and cloaked and I can't think of what it is and that makes me wonder some more and that makes me affraid.
Then ***** is quiet. And its unbarable. And I feel like hell.
My stomach turns and the bitterness swells up so much in my mouth that I feel like I want to vomit. I sit, unmoving, and as I do that taste races through my veins. Its like being drunk without the good part. Just the hang over.
I want to yell out, "What do you want from me! What arn't you telling me!? WHY?" Because I know there's a 'why'. Always is. I can't stand cloak and dagger shit. I want ***** to do the worst. Give it to me straight, right to the face. Better to know then not. But....
But I can't bring myself to say it. I sit there and listen to the rain slash against the window and the thunder errupt in the distance and the lightening expolde in the sky.
I imagine myself filling up the sink with cold water and sticking my head in it and holding it there until I'm gasping for breath, to take this horrible edge off.
There's something sinister adrift. I can't say what.
The cloak starts talking again. I wait for the dagger, in the dark.
I've tuned out. Its nothing important anyways. Just empty words, or at least that's what I tell myself.
So I sit there and lay my head back on the wall and ***** keeps talking and I keep half listening.
A question is asked of me. Pointless. Confrontational. I answer, "Yes," and leave it at that. But the question still lingers in my mind and I feel I should have answered in another way.
Whatever.
I sit there and the light is dim and I have the feeling in me that something bad is about to happen, but I don't know what. I've had this feeling for the last three days. Don't know why.
The talking is unnerving.
Another questions is asked, again confrontational, at least thats what I think, and I don't like being confronted when I feel like this and I snap out an answer, this time, and its clear that I'm on the edge.
I sit there and ***** keeps talking. And I'm wondering why I have this feeling.
I stare, but look at nothing. I'm lucid. Usually its good to talk with *****. Makes me feel alright. Don't know why I don't feel alright tonight. And ***** sounds different anyways and theres' something in that voice that is sinister and cloaked and I can't think of what it is and that makes me wonder some more and that makes me affraid.
Then ***** is quiet. And its unbarable. And I feel like hell.
My stomach turns and the bitterness swells up so much in my mouth that I feel like I want to vomit. I sit, unmoving, and as I do that taste races through my veins. Its like being drunk without the good part. Just the hang over.
I want to yell out, "What do you want from me! What arn't you telling me!? WHY?" Because I know there's a 'why'. Always is. I can't stand cloak and dagger shit. I want ***** to do the worst. Give it to me straight, right to the face. Better to know then not. But....
But I can't bring myself to say it. I sit there and listen to the rain slash against the window and the thunder errupt in the distance and the lightening expolde in the sky.
I imagine myself filling up the sink with cold water and sticking my head in it and holding it there until I'm gasping for breath, to take this horrible edge off.
There's something sinister adrift. I can't say what.
The cloak starts talking again. I wait for the dagger, in the dark.
posted by Chris Miles at 9:26 PM
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