Plane Spotting

 

Fickle Presence

 She lays mostly asleep in an early morning slumber, the heat pushing against the dew on the windows opposite of the cold London November air. Is she dreaming? I wonder, are those dreams like mine - the ones that stirred my brain and pulled me out of bed like a fact defying inertia. Or does she sleep soundly as I hoped to; caressed and cared for by the beautiful subconscious, euphoric restful bliss. Is it the calm before the storm, before the maladies of life evoke their innate purpose and stir the momentary dead? I pray for her while sipping lemon ginger tea from a Zara home cup, profoundly unoriginal and serving its purpose. 

Sleep deprived but still I wake, with pupils dilated and bags like elephants hanging from sky she parachutes - I wonder...What does it feel like to be present in sleep? Is it a state of nothingness; unscathed by the wrath of virtuous thought and incessant desires? Is it dreamlike, or Dantes Inferno, is the fire blue or orange, or envy green? Is it speckled light and paisley dripped kaleidoscope art, illuminating the back of eyelids shut firmly but ever capable of lifting? Oh, I wonder. Is it a painting canvas asking for a beating, to be drenched like an orgasm? Is it that ecliptic moment right before release where all you want is to achieve nirvana knowing it's gone quicker than it came?

Sunrise, east side, come again today - be my unnecessary alarm, guarded soldier without a war. Rise from the same side of the bed and feel the wooden path to morning glory. Shit, shower, shave, take meds, breath, eat, pray, plan, act...be. But can we be? Why does the present feel so different from our distant dreams where one part is vivid and the other is a blur in a windstorm, suffocated memory glands of dust from the dessert. Attempt to live the dream from notes which look only like ripped projector screen images, but try nonetheless. Since if we cannot choose our sleep, nor our dreams, nor our lives - all we have control over is this moment which passed by before we ever saw it coming. 

Young Man, Old Bill

30 days he said in the room, thats how far I have come. It feels like eternity as I sit back in this chair waiting for the right opportunity to give a share - a bit of knowledge I feel I amassed. See, I am the clever one in this room. The mighty lion who has conquered addiction without affliction, everyone should listen to my roar. Young woman only 3 days clean sits back, glued to her fucking Samsung flip phone screen. She isn't even clean, nor serene, taking up a seat in the den and eats, where all the real addicts meet. 

Im sleeping well, with my emotions at bay - easily finding my way to every meetings across the town. I find the winners, or so I think, but they'll probably relapse as they are not as smart as me. I thank baby Jesus, God, or whatever is thee - give over  my self will, and see that higher power be. 

Presently content and innately perturbed, confused why no one is talking to me. No coffee invites, sponsors, or suggestions about new great TV. While I sit patiently for my time to speak, for everyone to sit back and notice me; I twiddle my fingers at the commiserated nonsense, who better than I? 

Each story of misery, plotted and twists, sitting with abated breath and clenching fists -  Is life all that bad huh? You need a drink. You left all your family to ponder and think. While your kids did their homework and fastened a meal, you drank and you drank until you couldn't feel. So what they're older, they've stopped talking to you now, your sons a divorced heroin addict and daughter a Munchausen syndrome cow. You made a choice just like to be here today, pissed, drank, fucked, shot up everything away. 

I'm not as bad as you, I can safely confide, since i only drank myself to hanging and nearly died. Im alive in this room as I look at these two buffoons - sipping decaf coffee counting years of loneliness reciting prayers to be on the offence. You cannot be serious, taking advice from the hacks, ripped * stretched shirts and outdated pleated slacks. See I have 30 days in these rooms and they should be thanking me, for all the advice that I can bring with blissful glee. 

Its just then it struck me what my purpose must be, alone with my 30 day chip, I can clearly see. That all these poor saps are just like me - a different number in their pocket and a crippling decree. Do not take that first drink they say, or you'll end up like me, a drunk washed up punk - the universal wannabe. 

So just for today I take a seat, 30 days clean, bitter and serene. Listen to the drunks, the liars and the defeated, like looking into a mirror, this is what I needed.