(that position really is hell)

September 18, 2011

it is some time after you put down your fourth book (well, your second, the first two were only graphic novels) that you realize the light has gone and your back and neck have reorganized themselves into some brave new configuration, so as to fit the futon more accurately.  you flex your neck muscles first right, then left, cracking your vertebrae open once more.  you then force your shoulder blades together (adduction, you remember) so as to regain your original (if poor) posture.  there is a throb behind your brow and your vision in swimmy.  it’s no wonder you need glasses, you think.  looking at the books strewn about you sigh;  it is no wonder you have so few friends.  you would much rather open up a book than open up to another person.  (opening them up, now, that is another animal altogether.)  it is stories you covet, daydreams, imaginings.  you are ashamed, as your favorite people are most often those you barely know.  you make up a past, a present, a life for them out of the little snippets of information you glean.  you romanticize that which is not real, you breathe life into a fantasy, your precious life frittered away on that which never was and never will be.  ah!  but life is so very boring, you exclaim in your inner monologue.  (and it is so damn scary!)  you take comfort in these little stories, for even if they don’t end happily ever after, they still end well.  when you are without a book or a particularly distracting daydream (usually involving water or flesh) you are like an addict suffering from withdrawal.  you wander about aimlessly, grasping things with a glazed expression, anxious and distractible.  Without a story reality begins to seep in like a cold draft, and you blink your eyes and shudder while uneasily contemplating the dusk.  (weren’t you just somewhere?  weren’t you just with someone?)  how is it that you are alone, with this stiff neck and full bladder, uncomfortable?  your dry eyes well with long-needed moisture and you take a deep breath, inflating your lungs against your stubborn ribs.  you reluctantly stand, unfolding yourself from yourself like some bizarre flower, to stretch your hands to the sky.  you twist and pivot, trying to remember your body once more.


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