i love what i can touch. my roots are pure swamp yankee.
March 23, 2011
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a disjointed thesis fever post
i’ve, once again, been experiencing nightmares that are bleeding into my grasp on reality.
anime eyes, squirrel guts, ski accidents, no one in the library but that woman with the contraption javier bardem uses to kill people in no country for old men, everything is dark, everything fades in and out and i don’t know how i arrived one place from another.
i have expressed to my boyfriend that couples working out together is weird, so we tried it and it was weird. the next morning he was at the gym, after i’d asked him not to be, but when i arrived i was locked out and he was the only one in there: running on the treadmill. i asked the disfigured girl at the desk and she picked her head up and said, “i called security, i have no idea how he got in” then put her head back down on her laptop.
i feel this disconnect from my daily life, i wake up sweaty and in a terror to the ceaseless noise of machines beeping and slapping and grinding. i hear them licking their cold metal lips and sighing and grunting as if they can feel pain and pleasure the way i do.
they are passive aggressive beasts, they are slow and stop functioning when i need them most. they are always telling people things i didn’t say and not letting me tell people things i need to. my cell phone and i are in an abusive relationship. we need to break up, but i’m worried about how i’ll keep my friends.
i am molasses acting as oil in the machine of time. i am the victorian machine’s modern fever dream.
my mechanisms are failing.
