dream deep

I was at the train station, did you see me? Of course I’d been there before, there is nowhere I have not been and did not remember after. All those people, didn’t you suffocate and die there the first time, trampled under all those shoes, Prada and Miu Miu and Jimmy Choo? It was a relief. Then you would never have met me, and we’d never have gone to that wayside store and admired those grandfather clocks that never told the right time. The lady said she wound them slow on purpose so she never had to live by the world’s time, do you remember how she refused your help with that prim and proper smile? She was so happy.

We go to that place on the cliffs where they serve wine at ungodly prices, and we laughed and were rude and left and stole some from the back, because our food never came and the wind and the rain ruined the view from the window. We stole ourselves away. No one ever said we had to conform to their rules.

I don’t know where all these words come from. I remember places I’ve never been to before that felt more like home than wherever I was, wherever I would be in fiveminutestwodaysthreeweekstenyears. Why do we have to pay so much for everything? Who the fuck made visas and tickets and passes and propositions and ordinations and elections and tax returns and monthly bills and jobs that lasted from nine to five? Whoever made up the rule that said we are obliged not to care? Why are there rules to follow, who made the sciences of conversation? Who said that music had to be relaxing? I want to crash and stay limp, I want to burn all the books I have, I want to run away like an adult, not a child. I’ll carve my sins into my wrists and bleed myself out from the inside. I’ll stay quiet and be quiet, and I’ll see the sun, but alone. I’ll reek of dependency and emotional clinginess and charitable donations. I’ll never apologize for my faults. I’ll never return the things I borrow. I’ll never entirely know how to speak so that people remember me. I’ll never be neat, never be organized, never be on time. Never have enough books to read, Kafka and Hemingway and Allende, and Murakami and Salinger and Pamuk and Bukowski and a thousand others. I’ll never remember birthdays. I’ll always be selfish, I’ll lie lie lie. I’ll always run.