Journals - Poem by Hunter James
I shut the door and lean against the wood. My knees feel light, like they had just been hit with the small hammer at the chiropractor. My back slowly slides down the door, where I find the bottom. The cold floorboards sensitive to the exposed skin from the tear in my jeans.
I press my ear to the wall, I can hear the rain outside. I remember the rain now. I hear the cars too, and my dog moaning. I hold my head long enough until I hear the pulse in the loose skin of my lobe. My dog continues moaning, the cars continue driving, and the rain falls.
I remember the cold and the sting on my thumb. I remember the hypochondria that lowers my stomach as I listen to my irregular heart beat. I remember the cluster of freckles on my upper left arm. I grow conscious of it and it grows warm, I grow conscious of it all. It all grows warm.
Its funny, the ever so rare occasion of remembering your human. It hurts a bit though its mostly pleasant.
I remember my notepads, stuffed in a small draw of my desk. Folded and cramped. The glow slowly dimming as the words grow less and less meaning in the confined compartment. I remember why I didn’t use them any more, why they were cramped and diminishing value in such an un wordy conditions.
I'm sick to death of the white lines telling me about myself. I don’t want to know, the public doesn’t want to know, know one wants to know but them.
I remember many nights, loosely drumming my biro on the pages, the blue lines taunting me with its secrets, with its enlightening knowledge. I don’t want to know.
They say a writer writes to know himself. Its true, there's nothing as revealing as the course of ink streamed upon page. I don’t want that. I can't help that.
Though I need it.
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