I've been meaning to answer you all these years. I was locked in a cube of time, like a glass brick in a wall. In a present that never becomes past, like a past that moves itself along. A soap bubble should hold all that has happened since, and take the rest of life on a fantastic voyage. And I would sit in the old four walls, staring at something, letting time freeze, as life coagulates darkly. Afeeling like snakes in the stomach, hissing rains in the window, a night walking soundscape of unknown noises and painful flashlights. Walking at night on the glass shards of other days, under street light hummings, the squeal of crystal at summer weddings rises and falls in my lungs like a fire-spitting dragon, locked in a cube of time.
In between the flames of two candles on a late night table, everything a bit woozy through drink, as I can see from that man's cartoon-like head motions -- his gaze shoots through the two dancing flames like an arrow. I think he is thinking "hey, I'm still waiting for my life to begin and it's already half over!" as he examines some ash on the table -- and the other people in the room turn blue, like poisoned aspidistras, and their chairs grow taller, and taller, and taller...
My disposable childhood rises from the ground like a ghost : all flimsy cartoon strips from the back of cereal boxes and ice cream wrappers, all freebies and kinder surprise eggs, crocos, hippos, turtles and glitter stickers, plastic toys from Mc Donald's kids' menus, dinosaur magazines, tiny toon pogs from crisp packets, collectible bumper stickers, and endless bubble gum from bubble gum machines, smurf sweets, cola sweets, and slime jelly toys, glow-in-the-dark plasticine in a pot, and worthless accessories from a teen girl's magazine, like stick-on tattoos and rubber bracelets, and fruit flavoured lip gloss. One day we bagged it all and threw it out, since then I have taken to burning clothes.
I don't know what poked open and collapsed the bubble of cheap dreams, with all its fake needs and sheepish wants created by salesmen and adverts, the Diors and Zadigs of this world, that still want me to want to be a princess -- but why would I want to be a fucking princess? The faces of the past have vanished like ghosts, and all I have left is a tutu, and the crossroads blues.
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