As surely as the sun rises
I don’t climb the walls when i wake. No, I wait for them to descend to my level, so that I can rap my knuckles three times on the ceiling, without even stretching, and check that the roof is still present.
That doesn’t make sense, however, because last night I slept under a canopy of stars slowly hoisted to full height on tent ropes inside my eyes. I’m sure of it. I’m sure.
I don’t look at the gunmetal rooftops piled one on top of another as i sit on my balcony. No, I merely draw back my focus so that it blurs the chicken-wire protection. Then I wait for the flight of urban birds to deliver the tattered remnants of faded newsprint through the gaps, so that they drift lazily, on see-saw cradles of air, to my feet.
That doesn’t make sense, however, because I scooped overflowing handfuls of the crumpled torn paper from the concrete floor this last evening, and it fell through my fingers like so much cheap confetti at a dull suburban wedding. I’m sure of it. I’m sure.
I don’t think of anything when I stand at the washbasin, soaking the flannel by pushing it down to the enamel depths, then scooping it, drenched, to splatter my entire face in icy water and wipe the grains of sleep from my reddened, bloodshot corners. I don’t contemplate the note on the bathroom mirror, or the straying and wild strands of hair that seem determined to make me look quite so alarmed and unkempt. No, I don’t exist in words and phrases. There will be many times today when I will be completely at odds with the art of constructing sentences, I promise you.
That doesn’t make sense, however, because even as I scrub my skin and break open my pores, craving both physical and mental numbness, the unsent and unwritten letters seem to flow in rivulets of bloody ink down my face, filling my mouth to choking. I’m sure of it. I’m sure.