Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, I will be your Bruce Banner. Today, the gamma rays will be singing for you. He came again today. This time, I silenced him by raising a weary hand. I am getting stronger. I don't think it's the therapy. It was only a month ago that I woke up in a cold sweat, in the stairwell of my school in the middle of the night,with no idea as to how and why I was there. My dreams are getting darker. Or what Epicureans would call Dark. I'm glad I found my Pericles. I dream of huge, unending stone walls. My hands feel the cold stone. Then, through an opening on the roof, I see the moonlight illuminate a figure on the ledge above me. He is dressed in a blue shirt, open at the collar. I can see that he is muscular, because of the bulge in his forearms. He looks at me. I can see that he is handsome, almost reminding me of Marlon, but just then, he smiles. It's a cold smile, and it leaves me shivering. He tells me he is me. I stare uncomprehendingly. He tells me I'm weak. In need of a brew. His potent blend. I wake up. It's a dream. Relax. A bad case of nerves, I tell myself. I smile cheerlessly.
I have discovered a side of me that's not quite well-off. It looks inviting. But is not. Go away, Tartar.
I sit upon the cold, sequined chair. The shrink twirls his pen around his finger as he looks at me, and enquires after the progress of his patient. I'm much less defiant now. I feel a strange calm come over me, like it does when I'm debating or when I'm emceeing. He pushes his gold-lane spectacles further up his nose, and adjusts his wiry frame to sit more comfortably. I imagine his face contorting as he makes love to his wife. Does he ask her how far along is she? Does he order her to scream his name out loud? Does he come inside her? The thought is disturbing, and I ignore it. All I want to do is to go home, curl up on my bean-bag, and listen to Jimmy Page caressing his guitar with his finger, or watch Chris Gayle swing his willow or turn the page of yet another Kafkan novel. He tells me whether I'm taking my medication. I answer in the affirmative. I look away. I mumble 'Bathroom Break' and excuse myself. I walk mindlessly, and catch a glimpse of my face in the flyblown mirror. I look tired, but I can see that smirking existentialist under the surface, chortling at my inability to live up to my expectations of myself. Why do I not feel? No. No. No.
Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, I will be your Bruce Banner. Today, the gamma rays will be singing for you. He came again today. This time, I silenced him by raising a weary hand. I am getting stronger. I don't think it's the therapy. It was only a month ago that I woke up in a cold sweat, in the stairwell of my school in the middle of the night,with no idea as to how and why I was there. My dreams are getting darker. Or what Epicureans would call Dark. I'm glad I found my Pericles. I dream of huge, unending stone walls. My hands feel the cold stone. Then, through an opening on the roof, I see the moonlight illuminate a figure on the ledge above me. He is dressed in a blue shirt, open at the collar. I can see that he is muscular, because of the bulge in his forearms. He looks at me. I can see that he is handsome, almost reminding me of Marlon, but just then, he smiles. It's a cold smile, and it leaves me shivering. He tells me he is me. I stare uncomprehendingly. He tells me I'm weak. In need of a brew. His potent blend. I wake up. It's a dream. Relax. A bad case of nerves, I tell myself. I smile cheerlessly.
I have discovered a side of me that's not quite well-off. It looks inviting. But is not. Go away, Tartar.
I sit upon the cold, sequined chair. The shrink twirls his pen around his finger as he looks at me, and enquires after the progress of his patient. I'm much less defiant now. I feel a strange calm come over me, like it does when I'm debating or when I'm emceeing. He pushes his gold-lane spectacles further up his nose, and adjusts his wiry frame to sit more comfortably. I imagine his face contorting as he makes love to his wife. Does he ask her how far along is she? Does he order her to scream his name out loud? Does he come inside her? The thought is disturbing, and I ignore it. All I want to do is to go home, curl up on my bean-bag, and listen to Jimmy Page caressing his guitar with his finger, or watch Chris Gayle swing his willow or turn the page of yet another Kafkan novel. He tells me whether I'm taking my medication. I answer in the affirmative. I look away. I mumble 'Bathroom Break' and excuse myself. I walk mindlessly, and catch a glimpse of my face in the flyblown mirror. I look tired, but I can see that smirking existentialist under the surface, chortling at my inability to live up to my expectations of myself. Why do I not feel? No. No. No.
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