Pent-up Volcano, and No Mobile

This is a record. Five or so years, and I’m finally outliving a cell phone absence. What the—! It’s been four days; four days, and I’m alive.

These kids don’t know it just yet: they grow up to set their asses on a swiveling chair, get caffeinated, die for a moment, live for a while, get tangled up with machines, the bundy clock, and men. And they relive moonshine to no avail. So they’d realize they did run around, poke a friend and not get scorned at, get muddied but not laundry-bulked. That they didn’t pay taxes or Internet bills. That they were kids, who shouldn’t have played dress-up or housekeeping and who should’ve just held on to the age—just that.

Again

Sleep evades me again. I bought V-Cut and cold milk at the convenience, munched junk and drank healthy all the way down to the eighth of October. Balance. If I should be held down to bed in the morning, in essence to this insomnia, about time I nurse this infection. Rehabilitation. But I couldn’t find a name to what’s keeping me up tonight after many, many nights of the same nature. Bedlam.

I had tried leafing through Einstein’s Dreams, Water for Elephants, the Bible, my NTEs, and anything I could grab a hold of. And stupid me, I’m stirred up even more; I couldn’t fake—even just fake—sleepiness. My phone’s spending a night at the shop as for the moment, which means I’m phoneless. And although I got the net, I had to, or have to, end the day not totally conveyed—and thus I’m sleepless (for rhyme’s sake).

I’m not made up. Was never this scaredy a cat, and this “chickening-up,” as someone apologetically termed it, gets too much into me I’m bothered. But this nameless thing holds back as much as nature calls. I just want to be happy again. Happiness means loving mornings, the bath, chorizo and rice for breakfast, tapping on the exact. There must really be something that I need. Somebody called it push; just not sure if I’m pushable though. I need outdoors and more of the sun, the sun, the sun, myself.

My main concern is staying sane. Earlier tonight, my walking autopilot around Fuente helped. I made my feet think. They do have stinky thoughts actually—stinky good thoughts. (*sinister smile*)

Now sleep should come. Hush.

I Wanna Scream

Had been out on a hiatus, or so they say. Not to mention that it’d been a Lipovitan- and caffeine-related disappearance. Not actually a disappearance from them, or that—the society. Just that I seem to have clogged my drift tube inadvertently. My fault though. I have lost my wandering little self: my soles of jumping electrodes; my palm unreadable (has behaved into a straight line); my hair, which knew not a smell but the sun’s; my torso and hips and thighs, which knew only to dance and to run wild. ’Cause each time I surface into the metro, I loose them body parts, and I get disfigured gradually. I feel sorry.

The vacuum principle, it’s physics. How to stay sane I do not know. I can only drain all air off the tube, create kinetic energy backward motion—soft-drink straw, vacuum cleaner, siphoning, whatever, whatevershould remove the clog. I wanna sing, rather scream, at the top of my lungs again.

When I’m in desperate need to answer nature calls (not the nature they know), I call nature back. I say, “Later, when I won’t have the deadline.” But the deadline never stops, and money-making has proven to have outcalled nature. I wanna sing, rather scream, at the top of my lungs again.