Stream of unconsciousness

I held you down at gunpoint.

And as your eyes widened in alarm, my mind went blank for a beat, clueless as to why I pointed the gun at you in the first place.

Do I even know you? 

Perhaps the medicine did it. It had blotted out most of what’s left of my memory of the living. Well, frankly, I don’t mind because, even if nostalgia sounds like a beautiful word, oblivion weighs heavier in my book.

I had always told this certain old lady that the drugs never do me any good and from what I can recall, thanks to this unreliable storage in my head—probably a little red pillbox stashed somewhere up there—her last words went like, “Just one more; it wouldn’t hurt.” But then, it hurt, and in turn, I ended up hurting her. But I didn’t mean to, that was for sure. I had done a lot of things I didn’t mean to these past several days.

Then there’s this image of a man who looked like you, in my head, oh the resemblance was so striking I was fooled into thinking that it was you! Do I even know you? I smiled in spite of myself. Your gaze softened and it seemed like you’re about to cry.

In my head, I saw this man who looked at me while his eyes twinkled like the way those little objects up in the night sky did. I grinned sheepishly, snapped him out of his reverie, and asked him to carry my backpack for me. He willingly obliged. He held my hand and interlinked my fingers with his while walking. I was surprised because I didn’t pull away. It must have felt right at that time, I told my head.

Have I ever known you? 

The next thing I knew, I was crying. But perhaps it’s all in my head. I saw this image of you trying to console me and I leaned into your chest and you silenced my sobs by placing your hand at my back. It must have felt right at that time. It must have felt right at that time.

That statement echoed in my head to the tune of your voice begging for mercy. It was my turn to be snapped out of my reverie. There were lots of other voices, too! One of which persuaded me to “pull the trigger, you idiot!” I stifled a chuckle. People who used that word to address me never went unscathed! I tried to shut the fucking voice up in my head—I pointed the gun to my right temple.

I was about to savor its cool surface against my skin and feel a bullet lodged inside my head but then you intervened. I missed my aim.

“Who do you think you are?” 

I held you down at gunpoint and shot through your forehead instead. But I didn’t mean to, that was for sure. I only felt tears trickling down my cheeks when I saw blood streaming down your face.

Nostalgia is a beautiful word. And so is oblivion. But now I am not so certain which one outweighs the other.


About MG

Black against white.
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