I take my coffee weak. (368 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 0.66 on 6 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Doberish (View user info) at 2006-08-04 01:51:17 EDT
Small cup. One spoon level, no sugar, two splash of milk.
I'm on my second giant mug.
The granules were piled in a mound at the bottom. Ten times what I take.
I can't sleep. I've been awake too long. Sleep now means I'm dead to the world for a day and a night.
Everything was beautiful at 5.05am. Achingly beautiful. I remember the moment with total clarity. A song came on, a song of hope and happiness with uplifting words and an optimistic sound. I looked left and saw my own reflection in my bedroom window, hunched over a guitar. Beyond myself dawn was rising, and I could see the distant hilltops inside a blue haze, through the translucent outline of my own white shirt.
I looked back at my desk, at my watch, lying sideways, dawn-glow catching the face, lit up especially to show me the time of this perfect moment. 5.05am. Even the number was aesthetically pleasing. I was wide awake, my problems had been taken care of. She loved me.
Dawn is still coming up outside. Even the coffee is only denting the edge of my weariness. I almost wish I still had those twists of paper, their soft white powder -ground alertness. Stretch the skin on your back tight as a snare drum over your ribs and spine. Feel music coming up through the soles of your feet, detonating in the base of your skull.
Gave it up. Too hedonistic to find love. Now I have. But the stress...killing me through anxious insomnia. It's the reason I'm sitting up now, no sleep all night. Problems to sort, people to argue with, a girl to worry about. I think I love her. I had to bite back saying it. What if I did, and it wasn't true? What if I did, and it was?
I'd have to sit up all night and write a story about it. Pour my heart into the words, trap my soul between the lines on the pages of a book. I'd stay up all night and write a story about a guy who thinks he might have found love. He'd be too frightened to decide. To me, he would be alive, just like I would be alive to a guy sitting at a computer desk at 6.21am, writing a story about a guy who thinks he might be in love.
The idea is so bizarre I have to stop and just sit. Half an hour ago I put my headphones on and spun the gauges on the amp. "White Rabbit" leapt from the guitar, distorted, different, as beautiful and profound as a perfect sunrise at 5.05am. I could scarcely believe my hands were creating this sound, this reverberated noise, this tune that I thought I knew so well. Total oneness. Better than any trip. I exist for a few seconds through the rough grain of the wound wire on my fingertips, the soft, pulsing beat through the headphones to my eardrums.
The irony of searching for a "white rabbit tab" on brings me back to reality.
Maybe, when you do something yourself, you make it your own; you give it your own meaning, the meaning it holds for you, a secret importance only you can understand or enjoy. Maybe my first time will be a spiritual experience, something to remember and treasure for the rest of my life. Eyes locked on eyes, two hearts beating as one.
I wonder if she knows she'll be my first?
I wonder if he knows she'll be my first?
How could he disapprove then? This boy was bad news for her, he said. He will use you and leave you. He is only interested in his own pleasure. Hedonist. Womaniser. Nineteen year old virgin. This is more ironic than searching for a "white rabbit tab". It's the sort of thing I might have come up with on one of those tabs, or maybe two. I was so scared the first time I flew.
I touch my smooth forearm. Unblemished. No needle holes. Never have been. Paper, powder and leaf. Never the needle. Maybe it'll be my next first time.
I look up at my picture of her, her as she was then, with the man she left to be with me. At 5.05am it would have given me strength. She fled him to be with me. It's 6.36am, and it fills me with fear. She's my first.
The mug I just lifted nervously to my lips is empty. I think I need another.
I look around. No coffee here.
I toy with the syringe.
So long as I use it, she isn't my next first. My heart can beat more steadily. The needle will help keep me awake. Awake long enough to see her, tonight.
The tip slides under the skin without any noticeable resistance. I inhale and tense for the push. At 5.05am, the world was of perfect oneness, and she loved me. It's 6.38am, and I'm scared and alone. She's my first.
Fingers contract.
The plunger goes down.
The liquid floods me.
For a few fearless seconds, she isn't my next first.
User Reviews
Submitted by LeaderOfMen (user info) at 2006-09-23 20:41:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I think this was very well written, I like it when stories dont play to the biases of most language people prefer on this website. Stream of consciousness rocks too.
Submitted by ChristPuncher (user info) at 2006-09-23 20:22:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
AUTO JEW -2
Submitted by Chillax (user info) at 2006-08-04 02:12:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Repost the entire thing instantly just to get a shitty picture at the bottom?
Christ, anything for you lot...:D
Submitted by Antioxident (user info) at 2006-08-04 02:06:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Convert to jpg and repost
i liked the post though
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-08-04 01:53:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
convert to a jpeg and repost
Submitted by Chillax (user info) at 2006-08-04 01:52:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Shit, fucked the picture. It was an arm getting injected, for those who don't click on bmp's out of general principles.