My depression would tell you that my need for sleep was like witches burning in Salem’s Lot.
You have all this shouting about, all these pleas of innocence, mercy, rest….
I should get over it, stand up cause the day isn’t going to set itself on fire god damn it.
My depression at times resembles one witch in particular, her insincerity like a moth eaten sweater worn by Lana Turner; inside out now on the floor of the garage barely clinging to life and sanity. We are the many few we being, Open all night, Out in the Street…My City of Ruins…My Hometown. Girls in Their Summer Clothes Growin’ Up Because the Night, The Fever; I’m on Fire. Lost in the Flood, Sherry Darling Be True. I try to remind her how her own coven feels the burn of the Lot. The tingle of neuropathy from the flea market stalls letting too much sun in on our toes. She is far too hypnotized by the embers though.
So everything just burns. If it were so pure, my sleep it would be consumed and burn up like a right Christian child should. Saved in the glory of the most high! Nay thee sisters though…instead it cackles and cracks wedging its thumbs in our eyes; one final fiery act of rebellion before it is eventually snuffed out. The insomnia eventually burns away. Eventually. What it leaves is memories like old view master slides. Blurred and smudged but still visible. All those little shitty details that were so intricately you at that moment. Burned on your eyelids like some astral DO NOT ENTER! Sign. A final warning for anyone who approaches you.
Much like all those dead daughters and mothers and epileptics buried with innocents it all goes unnoticed. Just very melodramatic at 5:55 in the morning is it not? So what does it bring for us to remember in our ashen lot?
It’s not like I particularly asked to remember most of it, but it’s there. The same string of electrons bouncing within my grey matter demanding my attention. The reflection of an all to Hunter S. Thompson esque gallows face reminding me of how old I am. How antiquated my very being has become. When I was talking to Bria about some of the shit in here, like our first apartment, I couldn’t even recall what kind of internet we had; let alone if we even had internet in that place. Plantation fucking Meadows, Christ what a total shit hole that was. Why remember let lone write this horseshit. I could give it this audacious title, “I write to remember, the futures fucking right dim you risible cunts something has to stand.” Real fucking classy like, with all the profanities you expect garnished right in where you know they would be like Christmas lights illuminating the dark and dismal things that we did to ourselves. That right there though would be an outright lie. I could take the apologetic scoundrel who just wants to be loved or forgiven route and say shit like, “These things were examples of the madness of our lives. The drugs and the sex, the fights and the shits in three liter bottles packed into broken refrigerators. Oh for certain a sign of the times dear sweet beloved reader! I cannot believe I survived! Now I’m all clean and sober with the wife and kids. I found God you know, it helped me to recognize how truly awful I had become. It saved my life. No more scooping shit out of a broken toilet and filling the tank with piss to flush it. Heavens no, just apple pie and baseball these days. Here is your hotdog Harry, happy Labor Day!” Well that right there would be an even bigger fucking lie, not to mention inaccurate. It wouldn’t remind people of what life was like when things were not nearly as maddening. Those good old bad days. We were so fucking immortal. The smartest things you had ever fucking laid eyes on. We were half assing self-destruction while we romanticized death. We were bright and promising, we had it all figured out. Fuck everyone and everything.
You just sit right there on the balcony of your memory in your plastic fucking lawn chair leaned back. Smoking your last cigarette, the store brand over the counter cough and cold medicine freshly digested releases in your stomach and, your gastrointestinal tract; you release one small hiccup of a laugh as the chair leg snaps. The lightning from the rain storm you forgot was occurring all around you flashes brightly for the several breathes it takes for you to begin your tumble backwards and you see the pile of bodies, relationships, friendships, that you were actually balanced on the whole time and it brings you earnest joy. The road of chaos you marched straight into your more than slightly cynical thirties. Everything torn asunder except what was strong enough to survive you. So very little of it even matters, yet at the same time all of it matters. The people of course were mostly chaste but the events were of the utmost importance. So you fall for a while crashing into it all. Absorbing the all too angelically violent and, ubiquitous trauma. You take the time to remember it because it made you. You write it out because frankly you are bound to forget it, but mostly because no one is allowed to forget it. Screw everyone’s pretentious and masturbatory outlooks on life these days. The way they pat themselves on the back like they were such saints since the start.
How they walk around so outraged at the nonsense they see these days and they forget how they sucked some dudes dick while you threw money at them and drank whiskey from tea cups. How they ran off to get married and act all offended cause some twat decided he was going to become Daria instead of Trent; the whole time neglecting to remember whose place they were at when the cops were arresting people in the parking lot and they were hiding in your closet closely straddling a three-liter soda bottle that is adorned with a dildo at the spout. You write it to record the bad times, the good times and everything in between. Why the fuck not right? Only now your older and it hurts more to get up. You’ve spent all this time writing and recording events that barely register as events in the greater scheme of thing. They are more like quick time games that are cool to look at but if you consider what they actually entail…they’re kind of offensive.
Everything is petty and romanticized. Your memories betray you, did your life even happen the way you thought it did? Maybe I remember it another way…. maybe not.
My depression is burning everything inside me like so many witches.
It fails to notice I am a warlock.
I cannot surrender.
I am Kevin Fontan
I breathe Fire
I dream Demons.