I Woke Up

I woke up somewhere.  I woke up outside under an overpass in the morning-- the setting is just an illusion.  We never expected the screens to get this big, but I wondered if they were even watching, witnessing their magnificence; their eyeglasses glowed white in the darkness and the shadows might've hid wires tracing to the back of their heads.  An illusion in your brain.  I thought of them to be human or first.  Cars speeding by in the night, ignoring our experiment.  Or maybe I was descending into madness, something in the air, something in the atmosphere-- but were they even watching the same screens?  I would just have to test them to see.

I woke up in my bed in a small room, in a small flat, in the morning.  The coffee was never hot enough, and came in cups smaller than normal from some country where slave-labor might've made them, probably with people ready to die or who succeeded.  I woke up in a shopping cart, at night, in a lighted but empty store in the 90‘s; plastic signs with bold typeface, sad, catchy music, and simpler people, none of them around.  It was early morning and he was the only one in the restaurant, there might've been a cook in the back, because there was the smell of something cooking; but then again, he had heard the emergency exit shut.  With rags for my clothes, dark pointed shoes, writing on the floor underneath me.  Saw my reflection, it wasn’t me.

Or maybe it was all a dream.  Maybe I dreamed I was in a dangerous, gloomy city with cemented rolling hills.  The oversized industrial machinery stuck out like sore thumbs but the glimmering castle bulky and intimately engraved hosted people like its setting was relative; I would live there for awhile and seek out the local music, and be happy, for a much greater reason until I was titled-- after all, she wasn't real.  I dreamed I was stranded in the desert, with a few buildings made out of sand, someone trying to sell me things I don’t remember.  Maybe sea shells.

Or I dreamed I was in the woods in some heated argument with someone I once knew, who later became a stranger, and I felt ready to kill them as we yelled.  He looked at the worn man in the mirror, cracked, dirty as the rest of the public restaurant, the nocturnal city tunnels well lit; the alcohol dizzying and heavy in his blood, the floor cracked, the ceiling stained, graffiti and blood and ditto, and vice versa for everything, and fuck it all.  I couldn't say if it was a jungle or a forest, I could only feel the hatred here and the awkwardness and pain of it all.  Or maybe I never saw my actual self in that mirror at all.

Words formed with seashells on the dirty bathroom floor, the room half destroyed gaping out into a beach, attack ships on the ocean; a ghost fleet in the distance.  Words which could not be washed away by any tide of consciousness--  More static than the selfish fragmented daydream which gave birth them, while tattered sails called for some venture home, or to take everything we claim to own, or both for some higher purpose.  This murky collection of color about to collapse in on itself with the tiny brighter swirls in the sand all telling me that only through such fiction, does some part of me care about reality.

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