Lucid

7 11 2012

He’s looking at the rashes on his hands while scratching his chest with the other hand. He can’t smile because those are not the signs of victory. He hates those rashes. he know they were coming. They were destined to show up should he decided to choose the option he eventually regretted. Needless to say, he’s bearing the consequences of of his choice.

He put on some liquid medicated talc to lessen the itch and perhaps cover them up. “But those are the things that human eyes can’t miss,” said his judgmental heart, or conscience, or brain, or whatever organs that is obviously not leaning to his side right now.

Fallen. Or yet buried deep under dirt. That is how he sees himself at the moment. Not like everyone knows what happened and they throw stones while casting curses and spit on his face. He doesn’t need other people to do that. There’s a trial session happening in his head and he can’t dismiss the charges. The most painful part, he can’t say a word about this. Not to those who matters to him.

For him, friendship is not a bail-out-of-jail card that he can use to his friends while he’s in problem. He values his friend more that that, more than himself. He can’t bother them with this particular problem. Besides, what will they think of him after he eventually come clean to them. No. Talking to them is not an option. Or is it? Damn! he can’t think straight, just like when he saw things are moving in his room or someone was pushing his bed farther from the wall. When he turned the light on, nothing happened. “I must be losing my mind,” he’s thinking to himself. “Shit”.

 

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He talked to someone. He knows about his trouble. He’s the one doing it together with him. He knows the talked to him, but it’s not enough. He need a longer time to talk it out. Not just about the nausea, the rash or other physical stuffs. He wants to talk about feeling, like how he can easily burst into tears right there right now when he sees or hear things that’s sad or sweet. He’s an emotional wreck, yet no knows, not a soul.

An email. Great. “At least I can keep my mind occupied on work for tonight.” He tried and failed. He can’t get his mind off of his transgressions. He still remembers how it smell, how the smoke rises. He even thinks that his room reeks of its smell. He threw away all the tools thinking that he he could get rid of the remains of his mistakes, but he still can silence the voices in his head.

Sleep. That’s exactly what he needs now. He knows that drinking a lot water only help a bit but sleep works like a charm. He’ll be lucid by the time he wakes up. He tried. He  rolled back and forth, but his head just can’t stop thinking. Images flashes. He sees familiar faces, his old house, his childhood friends, the black fence in front of his house, his graduation, his first ex, his sticky notes on his desk, his trip to exotic islands, his room, everything. All flashes, can’t stop. He can’t scream. He just keep on wishing all of them would stop and everything will be ok when he wakes up.

His alarm went off. Blaring loud. Stop. Then went off again. He stays still. His eyes stayed close.

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