Shoebox Heaven and Consequences...

In my little shoebox heaven there’s a false sense of stability. I’ve seen this movie before. There’s nowhere safe on this planet. I contemplate consequences, their place in my head. Their lack. A world without consequences sounds seductively dangerous. I wonder if I could ever let go. I wonder if I could ever get comfortable. You’ve slipped away from me and I can’t fathom a way back.  In my little shoebox heaven, I can pretend that everything is ok. I can pretend they’re not watching me. Spying on my every key stroke. The threat of the outside world remains just that: outside. My inner demons come out and all hell breaks loose, but it’s ok, because I’m safe in my shoebox. In my head I have scenarios, entire conversations; oh, the things I would say and do if there weren’t consequences.  

               

“Holes imply, a hole practically begs to be filled and my head is a hole full of thoughts. Unspeakable thoughts of violence against you. Thoughts of revolution. If my holes were revolution, they would fill themselves and overflow and the unspeakable from every hole would drown you.  I lie there full of holes wanting to disappear; I want to be empty, holes want to be empty. I want to be hollow, understand?”

I wonder about all the horrible things I want to say. The dark images in my head obliterate any notion, or even idea of light. I hate the light. I think about the great literary characters who didn’t give a flying fuck about consequences, I think about movies I’ve seen. If life were a movie... I think about eating myself to death. Shut the world out and eat until I can’t move. They’ll need a whale transporter to deliver me to the hospital to die. That death scene from The Simpsons pops up in my mind: where Homer dies of obesity and has to be buried in a piano crate; the lift breaks and his body crushes that of his family. How tragically comic.

I would die without music. If I ever went deaf, I’d demand a refund ticket and hop on the first train back. I’d die. I wonder about my relationships with people; I think about how I relate – or don’t - to those around me. This can’t be normal... can it? I read about broken people, flawed people, they still find someone. Serial killers get married in jail and have stacks of amateur porn in their cells.  People with bad breath have someone to kiss every night.