Wayward mornings

A Story by juxtatux

this is how i woke up today, October something...this foul year of our Gregorian calendar two thousand and nine.

Another half forgotten dream, i can remeber the way she smelled. Strange, but the fadeing images seem to blur like too much water in the colors. Is that pounding in my head or just someone knocking at the door. Getting up is the hardest thing to do when it feels like you havn't rested. Time to pry the finger nails from my palms...no blood. Good. That familiar taste in my mouth. Strange, I brushed my teeth last night...now I recongnize it. Enamle...must be grinding again. Geez, I'm up already, quite pounding. Funny, there's no one at the door. Time to fake another day...

Coffee, the juice of java, stiring of the pulse...alertness is nearly apon me. Eyes still closed halfway. Crust in my eyes, dried snot in my nose. That inner feeling of a sponge left out to dry in the sun. Remenents of last nights alchool. I remember smiling...I remember the cigarette, how after seven years of abstainace, they keep reoccuring with increacingly consistancy. I hate squares...and i remember flicking it halfway across the street. The cherry leaving a tracer...only to see it get run over by the next fleet of passing cars. Good riddance, but there was a reluctance to my action. Not good. The next three days are sure to be filled with mind cravings. Sweet suduction. Knawing, nagging, begging for that fresh pack.

The flesh has all the signs of stress now. My neck is kinked, slightly ascew to the left. Somehow tethered to the tightened mussle in my shoulder. I can feel the knot with my fingers, doesn't seem that big. But the one on the other shoulder is jeleous and is raising serious competition for whom can be more annoying. Looking around the house shows no signes of new violence. Good. The hands ache somewhere above the knuckles and down the outer palm. Must be a new hole somewhere.. in some wall... I'm not even going to look for it. There are already so many.

A wincing glance out the window again. I see my son today. Out of the second and into the forth dimension, for three whole hours. No doubt under prying eyes of third parties. He always gets bored after the second anyways and the third is nothing but distracting him from his longing to be back in his comfort zone. I can relate, even if he doesn't. But my comfort zone has become a war zone. There, that fits, the squint in my eye tells me I'm on the right track, even if I've been derailed. Breatrhe Jux Breathe. Remeber to exhale. Damned undertow, wish I could evolve some gills or the lungs of a porpoise. Maybe. Nah, why not just learn to endure. What doesn't kill you can only make you stronger thay say. But errosion is real. The frostbite on my heart has turned gangreen and I was forced to amputate. A labotimy of the emotions. I'm killing myself, sub-consiously now. The stress hormones do not cease. The ache around my chest is a constant reminder that I'm taking as much time off the end of my life as these hours I am experiancing it, reliving it, and decribing it here, this minor testiment to anguish and psudo-solitude. A leathel combination.

Awake now, but why? Sleep, even with unsatisfing dreams seems better than being awake with shattered ones. Not many of us left...dreamers. Dying breed, not really fitting in society. We don't make good cogs, never have. I'm more like a coil, wound way to tight. Everyone seems to be dreaming someone elses dreams. And I'm no exception in that respect, but I recongize the forced intrusion on my psyche. I resent it... like rapeing my liberty, my persuit of happiness. The original dream. Fading in the sands of time. It's just easier not to let on what makes you happy and not subscibe to the mass delusions. Whose not happy? Jux isn't happy. Can you tell? Is it that obvious. And I'll be God dammed on good friday if i let on to what makes me happy. They'll just be waiting, salivating, bug eyed, itching to pounce and take it away. Like some coke fiend eyeing chalk dust at the end of a binge...not enough to feed the monkey, but just enough to make the monkey loud. Long gaze out the window, the wind is playing with the trees. Life seems like nothing but context. Cascading wind chimes made sure I got home safe last night.

Time for my pills. Never needed them before, yet now there are like a grandfather clock sounding out the passing hours. Fifteen minunites at a time. *Bong* no don't need one yet, *Bong* yeah they're wearing off, but I can wait. *Bong* Jaws getting tight, hold out, I'm in charge. *Bong* Everything is irritating, just a couple more minuites. *Bong* F*****g it...before I start to pull my hair out. Yeah...something to remind me that YES time is in fact passing. Guess that's one way to look at it. Maybe if I don't move, I can hold out another...*Bong*...nevermind....

Nothing fixes it tho, still broken inside. The pills just make me not care that it's broken. I'm sure there is a song about this somewhere. I vaguly remeber a couple bars, some distant echo. An ethreal connection with someone I'll never meet. Maybe when we die, I try and find comfort in that. Some may take it as a sign of suicide. But that's not it. Suicide isn't a way to connect, more like disconnect. The utmost example of control. To overcome the built in genetic programming to survive, at all costs. I've come to wear my scars as badges. Sighs ans signs. Documenting my fights and my falls. Etched on my flesh, inside and out. Not that much left...but Jux is still here. Somewhere...

*Crack* goes some joint & it''s time to shave the grey beard. The seasons are changing again. This marks 127 for me. Too few to feel this old. But I'm just bitching now...the pills are kicking in, and I really don't care anymore. Just wish I had some money for tonight, no anticeptic after I'm forced to reattach and amputate myself again. He's distant now as well. His mother is lying to him...relishing in the mass delusion that people all operate the same. But I've saved every paper from the past two years of this hellish nightmare. If I can just hold out. His awaking to the truth will be at least some form of satisfaction. And his instant distaste for her fueled with the high octane of rebellious teenage youth. She's going to loose him in the long run. Just need to hang on. Even if my wrists have long since dislocated. & *pop*...oh well, there goes my elbows. For some reason...drawn and quartered comes to mind.

There's a mason jar with a lemon halved inside. I think I made lemonade last night, but that needs sugar. I think this was just lemon water. Ahhhhhhhhhh bitter-sour, f**k bitter-sweet. It's not real. Time for more black coffee. Even though my empty stomach disagrees.