Song: Palaces Of Montezuma
Album: Grinderman 2
photo: self portrait
I don’t know how much more I have left to give. Even the deepest well needs replenishment to continue quenching your thirst. It wouldn’t take much. Just the softest little breathless word would top me off.
For lack of that, it is happening. I am dissolving into the ether.
Socrates once said that love was a grave mental disease. I say if that is true, then, well...I may be the most mentally diseased person on earth. But, does love just exist in the mind or does it hold any sway in the physical world? That is the nature of my internal dilemma. Am I losing my grip on reality or is everything losing its grip on me?
I first began to notice the changes in the library men’s room. You know, the automatic paper towel dispensers, just wave your hand and out comes a towel. I tried and tried with no luck. The thing just wouldn’t do its job. Of course, when I began wiping my hands on my sweatshirt, the next guy at the sink steps up to the dispenser and...yes, you guessed it. He got a paper towel.
It was several days before I really started to put things together. People on the street bumped into me taking no notice of my presence. I felt a constant chill as if I had lost the ability to warm my bones. Even the ATM wouldn’t acknowledge my withdrawal request. These are the things that had me thinking my mind was slipping. But, that can’t be. Right? If I am losing my mind how could I think it?
I was losing something, that was for sure. I gave it to you. Every last drop, and now it seems there is nothing left for me. I wonder if you still have it, if you fed off of it’s strength. Maybe you just dumped it with your trash. Either way it’s gone. I can feel it. A tingling, not of the flesh, but deeper, at a sub atomic level. For every time I sat and waited, a tiny bit of my essence escaped, and like a frog placed in warm water, I didn’t notice it boiling off until too late.
My mind says this is all just a figment of it’s own overgrown imagination. That I couldn’t possibly have stepped off the deep end of the physical world into nothingness.
I just want to come out of the cold. I just need something to hold me here. Just the softest little breathless word is all I ask before I slip out of this world.
Jeff toils and labors for his paycheck. Outside of that, he is hockey nut, a mediocre musician and songwriter, a wannabe storyteller and spends a large chunk of his free time creating fictitious bands at Zandergriff Miggs & The Parliament of Owls. He can be found on Twitter.