Detox or Retox?

Wicked, white walls from ceiling to floor. Florescent lights buzz in my ear. How long has it been since they put me in here? How many times have I gone to sleep... time is irrelevant. She'll never love me ever again. I just want to see her face. That soft skin, lovely lips... but she's with him now. Couldn't handle a man on the force.

"You're going to get yourself killed," she'd say.

Well here I am. Watching the walls. Complaining wouldn't do anything. Everyone has heard my story. It's in to movies every day. I'm boycotting it. This won't get me down. Was that a knock? Someone's coming in.

"If you're willing to cooperate, we can let you out of here Mr. Stewart."

Who said that?

"We're trying to help you Mr. Stewart. We can only help you if you let us. We just need you to cooperate with us."

Who are We? My legs move by themselves.

"That's it Mr. Stewart, nice and slow. Now lay down and get some rest. The doctor will see you when you wake up. Sweet dreams."


I went home. Another car was there. Keys in hand. Walk towards the door. Shadows in the window. Two shadows. Her and her editor. Together. The phone rings. Bar fight. Back to the car. Blue and red lights. Speeding through the night. Two men fighting. I can handle it. They throw a punch. I fight back. Blue and red lights behind me. I'm restrained. Shoved to the ground.


The white tiled ground. Was I dreaming? A man comes in. He leads me out. We go to an office. More restraints.

"Ah Mr. Stewart, how are you feeling today?"

Nothing.

"Nothing isn't a feeling Mr. Stewart. Perhaps you feel empty, like there's some void in you're life that you need to fill."

Something in my chest.

"The heart metaphor, how original. How do you know you saw your wife with making love with her editor? Perhaps they were reading her most recent work or discussing modern literature."

They don't need to. That's what e-mail's for.

"They were friends in school. After finding that out, they may have been trying to catch up."

How do you know?

"I have been in contact with your wife. She would never do anything like that."

In contact. Right. You're just saying that. Can I see her?

"You know I can't do that, you're trying to detox. Just forget about her."

You started it.

"Now that's just childish. If you don't want us to help, you'll never get better. Don't struggle, you don't want to be placed in the room again, do you?"

I bow my head. Someone comes in. Restraints removed. I walk back to bed. Lay down. Close my eyes.

She smells sweet, tastes even sweeter, and feels just right lying against me.

Lying next to me?

How did you get in here?

"Breaking and entering. Just how you met me before I reformed. So I called the station, they said you went batshit and decked a guy in a bar fight. They said you'd been muttering to yourself all night. When you didn't come home today I got worried."

You were with him.

"You saw that? He was my editor, I knew it was weird that he'd want to look at my work at home but you know me, anything to make a buck. We kissed, it wasn't anything more than a kiss but I guess it was enough to see that. I'm sorry. Well, now I need a new editor."

Wait, where am I now?

"Wow, you must've been really out of it, you're still at the station. Come on, let's get out of here and grab a bite. I'm sure they need to put someone in this cell."

Detox just to retox, huh?

Why so Emo?

Last post was trying not to sound emo but looking back at it, it was really emo. Oh, look at me, I can no longer write because I realized that my life doesn't suck so bad. The pain of not writing has caused me to stop doing anything productive like write things online that no one will ever read because I'm not a sell out. As you probably already know, selling out to pay your bills is probably the worst thing you could ever do as an artist. So here I sit, on my lazy ass, playing MMO's all day, being emo about more stupid life problems.
In reality my inability to actually produce any type of writing could be due to the huge amount of stress put on me by working 2 part time jobs while attempting to take four 300 level classes (remind me to not work at Renn Fest again until I get out of grad school). It could have been the literary magazine I was on because a professor of mine said it would be fun (oh, that turned into a nightmare). Maybe I got tired of complaining about myself (hey, is there any other use for a blog?). I'd like to blame all three circumstances because life happens but alas, I shall attempt to write every day again (probably because I'm hangin' with my artsy friends again).