Tuesday, February 8, 2011

This is a story without a title

This is a story about a story that may or may not be mine.

Sleep is the only thing that makes sense to me.  No one tells me that it isn't real.

A lot of things aren't real.  I wake up--late, because the sun is already on its way down--in a bed that I think must be mine.  That part is real.  The bed is there, and I'm in it.  Of course it's mine.

My clothes are on my chair, right where they're supposed to be.  My mother puts them there each night.  She doesn't like it when I call her my mother, for some reason.  She says I'm married to her, and that her name is Sadie.  Which is funny, because that's my mother's name.  I think it's also my wife's name.  My wife sometimes lives with us.

I wish she'd stop coming in.  I want to sleep.

There's something about food and pills.  Something about me and what I need to do with them.

I know she's doing her best.  I want to sleep.

It's not nice not to listen to her.  If she wants me to eat and take pills, of course I need to do it.  She's usually right about these things.

She talks to me, and I listen and sometimes talk back.  I'm sure I'm saying things that are tiresome; not because I remember saying them but because anyone who visits will eventually look tired of me.

No one really visits.

My brother lives across the street and I'm supposed to meet him outside.  I am trying to get the door open, but it must be stuck.  For some reason, my mother is screaming at me.  I usually stop when she does that, but this is important.  I need to meet him to tell him the thing we will talk about when I meet him.  Good God, why is she still yelling?

Anger.  It's been many minutes since the door got stuck.  It's dark outside and my brother is probably dead by now.  I know he's dead.  I remember his funeral; we shivered in our thick wool overcoats and gloves because it was winter in New York.

I really, really, really hate when this happens.  When things that are supposed to make sense make sense but backwards.  It's like I can see the future, except the future is sometimes the past.  She knows that I know that there are horrible things wrong going on inside my head.

She's short with me today.  I must have said something recently.

I think it's time to go back to bed.  My mother wishes I could stay away from the bed since I use it so much.  I'm tired.  It makes sense to use it when you're tired.

I want to sleep.

The sun is still outside my window.  It's on the wrong side of the sky.

It feels less bad to be here than in another place.  It feels good especially when I close my eyes and when real and not-real no longer matter.


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