dad may have been right: phobia

dad may have been right

a horrible sinking feeling as you drift to sleep

Thursday, December 08, 2005

phobia

My office, if you would call it that, is located in the loft of the apartment. I am sitting in it now, pecking away, trying desperately to avoid turning my head.

It isn't particularly late, all of the doors are locked, and the only thing acreep now is a slightly hyperactive cat, seemingly begging for a handy glass of water to be splashed on him. Yet still, Utopia plays, the space is lit by my old glass shaded accountants lamp, and I sit, not quite cowering, not quite brave, clad in moccasins, sweatpants, a white tshirt and a sweatervest, a modern host for an itinerant Raven.

The tapping is a century old house settling; the slight draft does not help matters, either. The specteres and paper skinned hands hovering inches from my shoulder, waiting only for me to notice them to become concrete, nothing but figments, my own worries, cares and troubles, swirling around, denying my best efforts, and chuckling, an emaciated rattle, dry and bloodless.

Sometimes there is a reason for worry, a cause for dread, and we know it, it serves a purpose. When that manner of dread comes it is alost comforting, as logic and rational thinking prevail, analyzing and picking, revealing underlying order and origination, and the secrets your mind wanted you to confront.

Othertimes, there is not, and the twinned human conceits of logic and ration seem paltry compared to those hulking, unseen and intentionally, damnably quiet visitors, staying safely out of eye and earshot, waiting for you to drop your guard. Those are the longest nights.

Nevermore.

spouted by Johnny @ 10:43 PM

1 Comments:

At 1:03 PM, Greg said…

Sometimes it's me, lurking-lurking behind your refridgerator door.

Quoth the Johnny "Cut the shit."