A kind of journal (5)
05/25/2011 § Leave a comment
I dream of becoming someone else; waking, I perish.
It all starts with music. An old music, as from a phonograph working past its prime, beautiful because it has already expired, a voice from the grave, a swan song. I hear it from the far end of the hallway. I walk, with my hand on the wall. I feel the cool and the paint. What dark old stains beneath? Ahead, there’s light leaking around the corner, its glow like a tangerine tongue salivating shadows on the floor. They are animated. Leaping, dancing, laughing, fucking—almost cartoonish. The music is louder but not clearer. Garbled voices, I can’t make out the words. It seems a different language altogether. The language of exclusion. I understand what I do not understand. The light loses the color, suddenly, as though it has been waiting to do so, and the shadows are extinguished. Or perhaps it’s my vision. Everything turns into a ripple of brown and gray, the color of a forest after a fire.
I fall to my knees and start digging a hole in the ground. Ah, I tell myself. The soil is still warm; almost hot.