An OD in a Dream

I do not know how it began, or how it got to its nightmarish end. I remember it, the end, but without a beginning, so I’m not sure how to, well, begin.

I am me. I have a one-room abode, with a small bathroom, in the first block of the Second Street. Where that new cafe is now, or where the leatherworker’s shop used to be. Somewhere around there; it’s not quite in any of the real places, but it’s there.

I am in it, I think. I’m not sure. The room is dimly, but pleasantly lit. There is a fairly simple desk of dark wood in the far left corner from the door. There are two monitors on the desk, my real monitors, and the rest of the computer stuff. Only,  one monitor, the small one, is on the floor, in its place an indoor TV antenna, and that upsets me. I don’t know why. There’s also an unmade bed. I’m not sure where in the room it is, but it’s there, and I’m in it. Or, I’m not, wearing a houserobe, which is strange, since I never wear houserobes. I’m thinking that this is the ideal place to invite people over for a game of cards, since I also have a table in the room. As with the bed, I am not sure where the table is, but it is there. I am thinking I should change into something other than the houserobe before inviting people over. I look towards the bathroom; that’s how I know I have one, in the far right corner from the door.

My mother is there with me. Or my grandmother. Or both, in the same person. My mouth is filled with the pinks. Was I thinking about pills before it happened? I don’t want my mother-slash-grandmother to see I’m ODing on the pinks, so I try to swallow them. I’m thinking there are at least 16 of them (why 16?) in my mouth. I try to cover it up by taking a drink of water from a small glass on the desk. I’m slightly surprised it’s there, since I never drink water from glasses that small (2 dl) when I’m at home. I think I’ve swallowed all the pinks, but I’m afraid there are still some stuck to my teeth as I smile at my mother-slash-grandmother. I can taste their bitterness on my teeth. But mother-slash-grandmother doesn’t notice. She wooshes away up through the ceiling, like a spooked ghost. I am left wondering why she was there, but don’t find her manner of departure surprising or strange. Something resembling a pink dress with dark brown spots pattern is left behind.

I am starting to feel the effect of the pinks. I am in the bed. No, I am not, I am trying to stay up, standing, holding the desk, fighting the pinks. Why am I fighting the pinks? No, I am in the bed after all. But where is the bed? Is it in the abode on the Second Street? Or is it in my flat? I’m wishing I knew where I was. I’m wishing I was at the flat. It would still be nice to be at the abode, I could invite people over for a game of cards, that would be cool and it would also be weekend or a holiday, but that’s why I’m ODed on the pinks, and I don’t feel safe. I wish I was at the flat. I wish the bed was there, because I’m in it, even though I’m fighting the pinks. My waking up depends on the bed being at the flat.

I listen to the sounds through the mind-fog. A computer is humming, but there are computers at both the abode and the flat. I’m thinking they’re the same computer, even. I still don’t know why the small monitor was on the floor, or what the TV antenna was about.

I must wake, it’s urgent now. But I can only wake if I’m at the flat. If I’m at the abode, I can’t wake. Where is the bed I’m in??

I wake, slowly but forcibly. Or, maybe, just quickly. I am awake, but still feeling the effect of the pinks I didn’t eat. And I still don’t feel safe; I am afraid.

But wouldn’t it be nice if I had that abode on the Second Street, where I could invite people to play cards on the table, and where I had a small bathroom and a desk with a computer, and a bed in which to OD myself on the pinks, and where it was weekend?

Day 13, the Awakening

Another morning-rise of a day comes, and the clocks ring and the watches tick and the sounds come back into the world. The world which is frozen; no birds sing its praise. The week reaches its arbitrary middle, but it is not arbitrary at all: before this day, two days have passed; after this day, two more will come.

The light has not yet come into this room, It can’t, it is not allowed. But the cold is here, it creeps in, uninvited, and stays until driven away. It came early last night, and now reigns. The elbows feel it. The hands and their fingers do not, yet, but it will come to them. The feet remain hidden, and that is important for the moment.

Soon, I shall have to venture into the world, and see its bitterness for myself. The hard, uncaring, merciless bitterness. I am not afraid of it, but I do not seek it. Not on this morning, or any morning. Maybe one day I shall wrap myself in it, and embrace it to be embraced in return, but it will not be on a morning.

The stream dries out. Maybe I should find another… Another stream from the same source? Ha! But it is not the source that is dry; it only pauses to take a breath. The source cannot dry out, though it may withhold its offerings for a time. To one and all, or just some. Such is its nature. A cursed thing, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t wish for a flow unending, unceasing, unbroken? And yet, as with all the wishes, one should be careful. Most careful, indeed. Caveats are always necessary, though pointlessly limited they seem when made. But at this moment, I wish for no interruptions. Nothing to stem the flow, ever.

It is not to be, though. Even now, my eyes unfocus, and my hand stops, becoming glazed with different desires. To sleep, to disconnect. To forget about the world, and the cold slowly reaching the hands (but not the feet, not yet), and bury myself back into the night’s warmth. I know it must end, but I wish to delay it nonetheless.

But it is not allowed. The words must pour out, for a time yet, and then the world will enter fully.

All words have their place. Knowing when and what that place is is the trick. To dismiss any for a prejudice or personal dislike is folly, for one robs oneself od the ability to express the full spectrum of meaning. Useless and undesirable a word may seem, but when its time comes, one will regret having dismissed it.

I could not possibly be hearing a mosquito. I could not possibly.

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