Hung
(Des Esseintes)
Perpetual harm. That’s the state I liken it to. Like all of life’s a condition–not just the words I say, not just affects. Like there is no past I can remember, without the broken leg. Or a past where the leg is allowed to heal properly, where I don’t go around stumbling, screaming for painkillers.
Because, I think I used too many. I think they might have been real bones sticking out. And now my umbrella has turned inside-out in a gale. Unfolded. It can open doors in this house and scratch names in the dirt and drive rats from the cellar. But it’s useless against the rain; the rain continues to pour in sideways and climb to the ceiling, wetting the plants. And I’m screaming for painkillers.
Today I find them with the map. Inside the map, there’s a man, and the man is writing a book. It’s the story of his life. There’s the time, one night, he felt the patterns crisscross under him; here’s the T where the vehicle slammed into a field. He left the vehicle. The body tumbled over and over and sensed itself flying as the only solution.