My Secret Window

This inspired by Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and the trash that floats in my eyes when I screw them tight.

3 am

Amazing what goes on in your head this time of day. It got too quiet till I had to switch on the Astro outside and tune to MTV (God knows I don't really watch it I'm not cool enough), the quiet was getting under my skin (into my brain, into that small secret place you thought you could hide but here it is, sonny and you know what, that place is wide open) and even though I'd closed the bathroom door I'm still inexplicably scared (and lonely you dipshit), and Kylie's outside asking us to go slow with her and just for once, for once you think you would be alright if you were weak for a little while and wish for something.

Reality's a bitch and she wears stilettos.

Tasting that line in your mouth, all the way to that part of the brain (I forgot what it is don't expect me to remember not at 4 frickin AM) that makes everything make sense and you think wow that sounds catchy I wonder if anyone will rememem- remember me for saying it, for putting it down, and then you realise all you wanted was not to be forgotten for someone to remember you.

I was there. I was part of something. You look at your snapshots, all 20-30 megs of it and you realise you're in less than 20 of them. You're scared you'll look ugly and sad and lonely, that you don't belong. So you trawl through the photos of places and people, remembering some things, trying to forget others.

What started this, you wonder? I was alright, and doing fine so what the hell started this? It's the bleed through, that little window that only opens at 3 am, when you can feel the edges (do you know what edges are?) come together and melt and blur into something awful and dark, and you wish there was something you could do to fall asleep and dream (or maybe not, because dreams are painful).

So tomorrow you put on your clothes (and your face, always your face) and you say it's alright and I'm fine but you always remember that dark spot in your brain that can make all your resolutions turn to mush and all the king's horses (forget about the men, they were all useless anyway) can't get you back together again.

Inside the eggshells of our psyche, what do our yolks look like?