Mass Load

It wasn’t long after the vegetable dream that things got odd. You might call it a morbid fascination or a macabre preoccupation I guess, but for me it’s much simpler. I like to think of it as an ebbing in the tide of purgatorial monotony, my long cooped whirling-dervish imagination carbureted. They were funny experiences and maybe Freud would’ve had some valuable insight, but it might not have even been his jurisdiction.

The brevity of those moments made ascertaining their occurrences all the more difficult; thank god for their lucidity. It’s the lucidity that really gave them away. A snap of the fingers that portraits.

On the verge of a stairwell was a common place for things to get treacherous. I could only conjure slapstick disaster, images of calamity projected insubstantially by a roguish optic nerve and conspiring sub-conscious. A ghost rendering of myself sent tumbling over the brink by misguided gait, a pebble down a well. Down I went and continually go, head following hands following ass, unraveling the red carpet with my person. Maybe a pop here; a crack there. Eventually friction wins and a quiet halt prevails, normally it’s a muffled affair. I find myself staring at myself from the vantage at the stair summit to base camp down below. The version at low altitude rocked back onto his calves, knees on the floor; if he was discontented I’d never know it, a toothless red sauce smile pasted on his giddy face acknowledges mine.