Some of the aforementioned are true...
He talks a lot about going to sleep and always dreaming, odd shit, yeah...but relevant shit too. Mostly of people. People that held a candle somewhere along the line. I don't know if I never noticed it before...like if it was always right there but I never paid it any mind -- that or that I wasn't capable of paying it much mind -- that or that I was always too bent to remember anything in my life, let alone my dreams.
When I stopped getting so fucked for a stretch -- and I've actually been holding semi-steady lately -- I was dreaming about Jenny almost every night. The girl clipped herself, knifed her wrist and just hung out and bled out and sometimes, I think about the things she must have been thinking -- right at the end there, as the world finally calmed and slowed...maybe for the first time in her life. And I always wonder, because I'm self obsessed and because I loved her and because I don't have to justify my fucking right to wonder if I crossed her mind, if I ever crossed her mind. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Maybe she knew me, too well, knew that all I was was a fucker, that I was probably coked out somewhere across the globe, fucking some nineteen year old hundred pound Chanel model...because that's exactly what I was doing, not thinking of the girl I left behind -- not thinking of Jenny -- like I should have been -- the only girl who had what it took - to put me on my fucking feet and her entire life was pouring out on that floor and in my dreams, all I want to know, the only thing I want to fucking know is whether or not she was thinking of me. I'd give my life for that knowledge.
Enough. You know the story. Excuse my obsession. Excuse and forgive. I close my eyes and most of the time, that's exactly what I see. I think about it now, what I've affectionately labeled to myself as the incident, even just for a flash and something in me starts to take over and buries it and buries it because guess what, it's 2009...and it's a new year and in the new year, we're moving away from self-destruction. For now at least.
Everything that happened...it would have been as good a reason as any to jump back in...into the painies and Jack...back into the stuff I don't ever want to talk about anymore. I didn't. And I'm not proud or anything, and I don't want any fucking props, it's just relevant to the tale. Something about the pain was clearing. Something about a look I'd get in the dream, something about the feeling I'd wake up with - this mess of regret, of some kind of sick fucking yearning and the rest of it just pain -- just grief and fucking sadness that I only recently began to recognize, let alone talk about. Burn showed me a thing or two about being a pussy -- that sometimes, being a pussy is acceptable -- that sometimes, being a pussy is absolutely necessary...if you can believe that - and coming from my mouth. Fuck me. Fuck us all -- after all that's all we all are...fucked. Embrace it.
I'm okay. I'm sitting in a hotel room in London and it's fucking cold and dark. And I don't know why I keep coming here, to this city. Something about it keeps pulling me back.
I'm tired but I don't want to sleep. She's been there for 3 sleeps in a row. It's not that I don't want to see her...I do. But coming out hurts. Coming back here, it can hurt like nothing else.
Not always, though. Sometimes, sometimes, my eyes open and I feel right, like I know she's waiting for me out there, somewhere, somewhere down the line.
