is like the most elusive creature, something spoken of but never captured. A man possesses a grainy 35mm film strip of sleep and experts study it day and night questioning its validity.
I don't think it's real, but I want to believe in it.
There are four walls. There are two doors, two windows, two mirrors. One mattress resides in the room, on the floor in the corner. There are no curtains, there are no shelves, there is no comfort. You can't see the floor, there are too many clothes without homes. If you could, you would see years of stains, burns, and rips. The walls look weary, there are holes left from fists and feet, the door frame is a death trap from a time when I was young, I locked myself in and my father broke through. The electrical socket is pulled from the wall, a reminder that loud music was not accepted.
I never did get around to fixing things.
Maybe I leave them though, as a reminder of the past. I can look at them and remember the days before I gave up, before I lost hope, when I wanted to be different and prove something. I could tire myself out fighting for a purpose, exhaust myself with tears and swinging fists, weaken my voice with screams of defiance, and eventually, I would sleep.
The more I've grown, the more of myself I've lost. I understand that I don't sleep because I'm already asleep. I'm in a perpetual state of unconsciousness and apathy that lives like a giant fog surrounding me. From inside it seems unbreakable, almost inescapable, but it will lift someday. I will find my way out.
Now playing: Elliott Smith - Roman Candle
