Nail me down
There's a nail sticking out of a beam at an odd angle. I see it from the futon in the corner of the basement, where I sleep when my bed feels unsafe. I gaze at it in the mornings where a little light from the corner of the covered window catches it and it catches my eye. I can stare wordlessly. Having something to stare at makes the whole world come into focus. Radiating outward from this point of contact, the solidity and materiality of this. For a little while, everything feels truly real.
I moved last night after waking in my bed. I had dreamed of violent struggle. Strangely disembodied, watching from afar while feeling limbs and flesh entangled, whispers in my ears. Everything jumbled and strange, bodies over bodies melting through each other. Muscles spasm, kicking nothing. Spacious emptiness all around.
The dream was long, before that point. Moving through familiar spaces from other dreams where danger lurked. Underground, in buildings long abandoned, I could rest uninterrupted. I could make myself imagine there was no one there but me. The little band of travelers, lost configurations of myself. Searching for something. Walls and surfaces all sandy and decayed.
There was a camp, a little fire and soft earth. Distant ceiling overhead. Shadows everywhere. So many dreams where I am sleeping, or trying to sleep. And then, creeping presence and violation. Do you feel it? It's impossible to tell where bodies end or fall apart, when waking up. And then it's over.
So I moved to the futon. And then I dreamed of death, and coming home to strangers. Missing everything I needed just to get to somewhere safe. Digging through my wallet, searching for IDs and money. I was ruined, and I knew there wasn't anything. But someone came and saved me, someone who deserves so much better than she got. We searched for opportunity, we told the truth and bluffed our way through danger and security.
I'd left my things behind with hers, and fortunately knew my code, the one I always used to lock my door. We took our things with caution. No one cared. And then we went back home, where dying was forbidden to be spoken. Time to eat and smoke, and hopefully forget. But time was up, and panic made the world go dark.
Now awake and staring at the nail. I imagine pressing it against my skull, waiting for a hammer. Maybe that would fix me, letting something out, some pressure or a spirit or some toxic substance. Something stuck inside that keeps me frozen. Feels like hell, like nothing ever changes. I'm just going through the same emotional loops and cycles I've been in for years and years. When I was younger I used to think each year was secretly the same. Repetition agonizing, always searching for escape. I still hate holidays and birthdays, and the sense of changing seasons. It's happening again. How do I explain it?
Language doesn't work. There's no communication, only efforts at approximation, something that can never be encoded into words, cannot be spoken. I'm alone, reaching through eternity to try and show myself to anyone. But nothing gets across. Whatever substance really matters only disappears, falling through the cracks before it reaches other souls. The sticky pneuma of the recognition that I crave only comes with abject failure to even prove that I exist.
I'm afraid of everyone. I hate it when I have to talk. I'm getting worse at pretending to be okay, when I'm not. But at least there are times when I am okay. And at least my life is better now.