Dreaming Of Apocalypse

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I’m essentially panting sweat when my own gasp wakes me up. I’m soaked; I literally have to peel the sheet – from which I’ve kicked the duvet out of – off me.

I lay there, hot, sticky and uncomfortable, until my breathing returns to normal.

The black of the room is already becoming definable greys by the time I decide to get up. There’s no hope of returning to sleep anytime soon.

I flick the switch and blind myself with the sudden flash of light and for a moment I’m back in the dream, a deer in the headlights of Enola Gay and her Little Boy.

Dreaming of apocalypse.

Still, it was arguably more bearable than the dreams that used to haunt me, and its lasting repercussions somewhat less jaunting. Back in Hirabari – pre-Womb – I would wake utterly confused. Confused to hear the deadly silence of the streets outside broken only by a cicada’s occasional scream and wonder where instead is the restless night of my New York. Confused to find myself not only alone but in a futon – a fucking futon – that could never hope to fit two people regardless. Confused to find the warmth of Grace’s body nothing but an illusion that faded with the dream that conjured it.

I’d have barely finished composing myself when I’d look to the space on the floor next to me where my sister used to lay her mattress and see she wasn’t there either and it’d tear me up all over again.

It was on those nights I’d fix myself a 3AM breakfast of cocktails and porn.

So ultimately I guess utter annihilation comes a close second to the complete and crushing concept of loneliness.

An uplifting maxim for jumpers, pill-poppers, and wristcutters everywhere.

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~ by Joseph Blame on July 28, 2010.

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