I am currently working on editing my non-fiction/poetry collection called AMPHETAMINE PSYCHOSIS, trying to meet a self-imposed deadline.
Here’s another excerpt.
The stars above me become airplanes flying through the dark. Everything is moving. And if I try hard enough it’s like I can feel the rotation of the planet beneath me. Like I can feel myself moving through space.
I can feel the whole planet.
And the airplanes are flying above me. Flashing their red and blue lights. And the stars are not hidden by clouds.
It’s three in the morning and I’m pacing along the lake. Lake Michigan. The beach closed hours and hours ago. It’s the same beach we used to come to when we first moved to the city. With a case of beer and a water bottle full of vodka. And some friends. And we’d have a fire, until the police came to kick us out. This beach. It’s quiet and lonely now. Not like it used to be.
I am alone on the beach.
I bury my feet in the cold sand and just listen. There’s nothing but the water lapping against the shore and the beating of my heart. That irregular thud against my hollow bones.
The lake is a black pit in the darkness. There is nothing alive out here. And it’s too quiet for such a populated city. How could it ever be this quiet?
I dig around in the sand. Feel it clump up against my sweaty skin. I think about sandcastles. About how I never remember building one. Ever. Growing up on the south side of Chicago, we didn’t make it to the beach often. Even though it was so close. We didn’t make it out of the neighborhood as much as we probably should have.
A dog barks somewhere and I think about walking out into the black waters. I think about walking forever. I think about walking out to the middle of the lake and letting my body sink hundreds and hundreds of feet to the bottom.
I think about letting myself drown out in the middle of Lake Michigan. I think about dying in a place where no one will ever find me. And I can truly be free. Alone for all eternity.
I think about holding my breath until I am able to breath under water. And that way I’ll never have to come back to this place.
But I don’t do any of that. I just fall back into the sand and look up at the stars and the airplanes and the birds flying there. And I dry-swallow another pill and listen to the sound of my heartbeat and the lapping of the lake against the shore until it all becomes the same thing.
And I watch the night become day again. And I hear the city wake up around me.