Thursday, July 24, 2014


he opens his swollen eyes, straining to see through the crust that had formed on his lashes. what time is it? how long has he been asleep? has he slept through the day and is it a night again? the heavy curtains barely let the air or light in, but he can see the air around him is thinner than it was before he blacked out. before he lost himself in the bottomless, dreamless state of catatonic drunkenness, he was crawling on the floor after slipping and falling on his way to his single, narrow bed from a toilet, where he remained, mumbling or moaning wordlessly in turns, writhing and scratching at his legs and arms and surgical scars on his body. he remembered that itch, he wanted to end it, he wished he kept a knife in the house. most words spilling out from his cracked and bleeding lips were pieces and syllables of words he recalled from the world word heavy-weights, engraved on his soul with the force that only a beauty and a death possess. no, it wasn't all the vodka he had consumed that night alone at home (for he stopped getting obliterated outside home after the last time when he hurt himself so badly that he literally couldn't move for a day afterwards, where he lay all day drifting in and out of consciousness and masturbating), it wasn't even the blunt void that has pinched his ribcage, his guts, and even his pulsating rectum where no shit passed in days. he couldn't pinpoint it, despite the fact that it was lodged inside him as well as all around him.

as he watches the moths flying around, he suddenly wishes to be one of these horrible-appearing creatures of the night, terrifyingly alien in their furry ugliness. 'but they are attracted to light, that must be why. maybe i am glowing for them', he flinches every time one comes close brushing his face, all his insides squeezed with a petrifying disgust. and it suddenly hits him that it is not anything else that has been creeping him out the last half a year, that it was but this nauseating, irrational disgust. the concrete disgust that has outgrown its decency and transformed into something that was akin to a quicksilver terror, random execution, headlong in-love amazement. no, it was simply a disgust. mostly, at his own self. disgust. with the innocent but terrifying-looking moths still flying around, he realises that he, too, is a moth, that he will remain a moth all his life, that he will never live in the sun, in the light, that he will always seem the repulsive, hideous creature that dwells in the dark, but who always seeks out and flies towards the illusive lights, all his life. as this insight envelopes him fully, he vomits, passes out, and for the first time in months, he sees a dream, a moth dream of seesawing night forests, valleys and mountain tops...

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