Wander’s Journal: Entry 1
Slept feverishly; dreams filled with scary things, things I’d forgotten, things I hadn’t feared since I was very small.
Wake up in an unfamiliar house, one that smells like spices, sweat, and alcohol. I and everyone else here may be able to find refuge in this place, but our dreams sure can’t.
The house is big - huge, even, but it’s too hollow for anyone to call a home. But it is big, like one big room, packed with large comfortable sofas with any number of colorful characters snoozing in their cushy embrace.
Woke up groggy, too. I can smell the booze and sex and drugs from last night’s escapade and I wonder who in this room participated in said midnight fantasies with me. I wonder who built this house, or if it was built purely for the purpose of allowing drunken, high, sexed out freaks a place to crash for the night.
I try to sleep some more, but I can’t. I need a shower, need coffee, need to get out of this place before I start to remember most of the things I did. Stumble over several sleeping forms; accidentally step on a young, thin blonde girl lacking anything like pants. She wakes up, curses, falls back asleep.
I pass through the only visible door in the big room, leaving the burned out, junk-head nymphomaniacs behind. I suppose I shouldn’t judge, but I’ve always been an asshole. Suspect I always will be.
Don’t know how I end up in the kitchen, but I do. A man and a woman sit at a round wooden table; the man reads the paper and chatters on about nothing to the air. The woman sits, huddling over a chipped yellow mug filled with steaming coffee.
I search desperately for a coffee maker, but to no avail. Collapse at the table; neither noisy man nor shivering woman look up, much less even acknowledge my existence. I sit, shoulders slumped, staring at my feet. I ache.
It used to be so much easier. But now it’s just painful. I can feel the fluids in me basting, blood and nicotine and alcohol and so much more - they burn, and I cringe. I miss my friends, miss my family, but I left both behind a long time ago. Now I can’t even remember their faces.
Look up from my daze, only to realize I’m alone now. The woman left her mug of coffee, and I take a few generous swigs before realizing that she’s still there, sitting right in front of me; but her existence has become so insignificant, so worthless, she’s not noticeable. It doesn’t make me sad. Just worried I’ll end up the same way.
I leave the kitchen and return to the place of couches and no doors. Almost everyone is gone, and I find myself wondering where they went. Only a few remain, sitting dizzy on a massive circular bean bag.
One frizzy haired European passes a joint to the Rastafarian man playing the guitar across from him. I see the strings strummed but I don’t hear the music. The pant-less blonde girl is there; it seems she’s found a skirt. A sleeping puppy is curled in her lap, limbs twitching as he chases rabbits in Dreamland.
Good for you little Puppy. You deserve those good dreams more than I.
I take an empty place on the couch. No one speaks. We just sit, and let our eyes wander, and take hits from a singed roll of paper and plant, and wonder how we got here, what we’re doing, and when exactly we lost our ability to dream.
Slept feverishly; dreams filled with scary things, things I’d forgotten, things I hadn’t feared since I was very small.
Wake up in an unfamiliar house, one that smells like spices, sweat, and alcohol. I and everyone else here may be able to find refuge in this place, but our dreams sure can’t.
The house is big - huge, even, but it’s too hollow for anyone to call a home. But it is big, like one big room, packed with large comfortable sofas with any number of colorful characters snoozing in their cushy embrace.
Woke up groggy, too. I can smell the booze and sex and drugs from last night’s escapade and I wonder who in this room participated in said midnight fantasies with me. I wonder who built this house, or if it was built purely for the purpose of allowing drunken, high, sexed out freaks a place to crash for the night.
I try to sleep some more, but I can’t. I need a shower, need coffee, need to get out of this place before I start to remember most of the things I did. Stumble over several sleeping forms; accidentally step on a young, thin blonde girl lacking anything like pants. She wakes up, curses, falls back asleep.
I pass through the only visible door in the big room, leaving the burned out, junk-head nymphomaniacs behind. I suppose I shouldn’t judge, but I’ve always been an asshole. Suspect I always will be.
Don’t know how I end up in the kitchen, but I do. A man and a woman sit at a round wooden table; the man reads the paper and chatters on about nothing to the air. The woman sits, huddling over a chipped yellow mug filled with steaming coffee.
I search desperately for a coffee maker, but to no avail. Collapse at the table; neither noisy man nor shivering woman look up, much less even acknowledge my existence. I sit, shoulders slumped, staring at my feet. I ache.
It used to be so much easier. But now it’s just painful. I can feel the fluids in me basting, blood and nicotine and alcohol and so much more - they burn, and I cringe. I miss my friends, miss my family, but I left both behind a long time ago. Now I can’t even remember their faces.
Look up from my daze, only to realize I’m alone now. The woman left her mug of coffee, and I take a few generous swigs before realizing that she’s still there, sitting right in front of me; but her existence has become so insignificant, so worthless, she’s not noticeable. It doesn’t make me sad. Just worried I’ll end up the same way.
I leave the kitchen and return to the place of couches and no doors. Almost everyone is gone, and I find myself wondering where they went. Only a few remain, sitting dizzy on a massive circular bean bag.
One frizzy haired European passes a joint to the Rastafarian man playing the guitar across from him. I see the strings strummed but I don’t hear the music. The pant-less blonde girl is there; it seems she’s found a skirt. A sleeping puppy is curled in her lap, limbs twitching as he chases rabbits in Dreamland.
Good for you little Puppy. You deserve those good dreams more than I.
I take an empty place on the couch. No one speaks. We just sit, and let our eyes wander, and take hits from a singed roll of paper and plant, and wonder how we got here, what we’re doing, and when exactly we lost our ability to dream.