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Sleep Wide Awake (redux)

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Johnny Slipknot



Joined: 04 May 2005
Posts: 39
Location: The Burned City
Sleep Wide Awake (redux)  Reply with quote  

Journal 27- When I was a boy I thought that there was power in the night time sky. That the stars above looked down on me with expectation. I would stand in the driveway of my childhood home looking up at the wheeling cosmos and make bargains with them. Deals for power and success. Never questioning price.
I should have.

Journal 28- How does one begin? What blips on the radar of your life do you mark down and put on display in an effort to say ‘This is me. This is my life.’ Your mind scrolls back through the years, pulling over briefly at the various roadside attractions, speeding up at times in an effort to leave behind some scenes of terrific horror. Maybe these things shouldn’t be attempted while one is in pain.
Maybe that’s the only time it can happen.
I don’t know. There seems to be a lot I don’t know. I do know this…Superman is dead.

Superman is dead.
Being wonderful is not.
I’ve found battery acid in my veins where blood should be.
I lay down my sword.
Self-pity is an embarrassment…let’s keep this to ourselves.
I am a Ronin.


Journal 29- I feel wretched. Never loving someone enough to fear losing them seems like the saddest idea in life. It also seems enviable.
I wonder if there are those out there damned to behold beauty but never to hold it. To cup it in your hand long enough to caress the shape, learn the lines and feel its heat…only to have it ripped from your grasp.

Journal 30- “Fear only two: God, and the man that has no fear of God.”-the Koran
I now feel like a man to be feared.

Journal 31- Some say that these woes are nothing that time won’t heal. A tempest in a teacup. None of which is comforting when you feel you’re the size of a sugar cube and living in the teacup.

I keep trying to turn my mind to those I have known and know that have suffered great tragedies and survived them. My mom lost here first husband and first born son in one fell swoop at the hands of a drunk driver and went through an anguish that belies comprehension. My father lost his first wife to cancer.

My best friend lived through the debilitation and slow death of his father and the death of his sister (after numerous attempts and the eventually successful suicide) all the while standing helplessly by his mother in her grief. I listen with rapt attention to small stories of people’s pains and difficulties while holding them up to my own, weighing and measuring in a vain attempt to lessen my pain. I feel selfish in doing this. Like a stalker preying on the unsuspected and making their woes paltry for the easement of my own heart.

I can’t help it and I am beyond apology.


Journal 32- I met a woman. I met an amazing woman. The kind that doesn’t know she is amazing and therefore is all the more…well, you get it. We fell in love as helplessly as a toddler stumbles taking its first steps. We crossed each boundary wondering ‘how did we get here?’ We…we
Fuck this. Fuck this fuck this fuck this fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck---




Walker is not feeling well. Not well at all. It’s not, certainly, the weather. You really couldn’t ask for a better autumn late-afternoon. Sunshine. A gentle breeze. Down Monroe Drive, the leaves are already showing the early signs of turning. As dusk approaches the streets around Ansley Park become occupied by joggers, dogs pulling giddily on their leashes, children tugging the sleeves of parents. People wave to one another easily and smiles are passed around with reckless abandon. These first few days of fall wrap their gentle fingers around the mood of the city and seem to soothe the hearts of the citizenship. We can see round wooden tables at the MeanBean Coffee House starting to fill up, can’t we? Sure. If we listen close we can just make out the hiss of the espresso machine as the door opens and closes with the near steady stream of patrons wanting to linger in this late afternoon atmosphere. No one seems eager to shut the door on the day, do they? Of course not. Why, isn’t the aroma of the air enthralling? Doesn’t the soft feel of the nearly worn-out sweat shirt feel comforting against the skin? Tell me ole blind Dexter down on the corner of Piedmont and Maple isn’t adding a little magic to the air with that battered twelve-string of his. Black fingers, callused and lined, flow over the neck of the guitar like spilt mercury. The open guitar case at his feet is gonna have more than a few five spots in it at the end of this evening, we can be assured.

So, let us lift up into the air again and travel back to where we started. Up the tree lined street, away from Dexter as he plies his trade, back through the packing lot of the MeanBean that buzzes happily with caffeine and conversation, past the dog-walkers, joggers and child-wranglers that gad about Ansley’s small parks.
Let’s return to the short driveway that leads to 1782 Monroe Dr. A smart, two-story house with grey stained brick and two tall pines that stand sentry in the front yard.
Here we are, back to the man that leans, or perhaps ‘sags’ better describes it, against a deep blue Jeep Cherokee. He seems to be studying his boots, scrutinizing them as if they held the key to a difficult puzzle.
Walker is hearing voices.
To be exact (and let’s be, shall we?) Walker is hearing a voice. A woman’s voice.
She first whispered to him two weeks ago as he sat nodding in front of the television, waiting out the end of the news. At the time it was easy to dismiss the voice as a product of weariness. Even in the next morning’s shower, when she spoke again, Walker did little more than pause between hair scrubs in confusion. In the coffee shop, at the gym, in the parking lot of the studio, her voice found him and managed only to confuse him, look about with an index finger wriggling in his ear.
Then the afternoon came when her timing would be precise. Walker was at rehearsal. He’s a musician and a pretty talented one at that. The Gecko Sound Stage is where he can usually be found, rehearsing or in performance. He has performed in a half-dozen shows and most have met with success. Walker’s life as a musician is fairly quiet and, in the eyes of most musicians, enviable. He makes his living doing what he loves and is in no immediate need of losing that status.

Now…he’s certain that he’s going mad.

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