Ego Sum Non

the basement is hazy, filled with smoke, sweat and noise. even in the middle of winter you couldn't possibly need a coat down here. your eyes wander over the crowd. unfocused, intoxicated. your head is already pounding, your ears ringing. it's disorienting in the best way you could imagine. as you push through the crowd your heart races. in the middle of the room. that's where they had built their stage. was more authentic, they said. she's regretting listening to them, people bump into her from all sides, beer drips onto her head. even with the earplugs the howling of the crowd is hard to bear. heart's racing. small break between songs, so she grabs some water, then continues. with a final crashing sound the encore's end, next act. you need a breather, grab something to drink and head out. the night is crystal clear, freezing cold. not that you'd notice, too flush with alcohol and adrenaline. you breath out a small ghost, that hovers around your head for a second, somewhere besides you there's a spark, then a flame, then smoke. away. she just needed to get away, even if just for a moment, just for a second. the smoke from her lungs rises, mingles with your ghost, joins it somewhere beyond. usually she doesn't smoke, at least she tells herself that. only after shows, and before shows. and during interviews, sometimes. while writing songs, or during practice of course, but the rest of them do that too. it's an agonizingly slow smoke. beads of sweat still on her skin, goosebumps and shivers. you tilt your head, offer a beer. there are no words left in the night, still there is solace in sharing. she takes the jacket you offer, her own is still inside, but she doesn't want to go back any time soon. too full, too loud, too much. you wonder why she does this in the first place, but neither of you knows. the question doesn't even cross her mind. she's always done this. and if you'd ask, she'd say she enjoyed it. really she does. despite the smokes and the shakes. the shivers and the lonely nights. you wake up, not in your bed, but on someone's couch. cigarette smoke lingers in your lungs. there's another show tonight.

you've been here before, it must have been a few years, but you recognize the place. the large columns of basalt, or sandstone, or whatever. the high ceilings, the dusty floors. your footsteps echo through the empty dark in front of you, joined by the faint buzzing of electrical equipment and the residual noise of your headphones. a sound you aren't privy too, and yet you worry about it. it used to be such a bright spot in the town. a community center, at least at first, eventually it was bought up by a local couple, turned into their home. it used to smell of food, of sweat and tears. halls filled with laughter and song. now there are only maids milling about, staying busy as they sweep the floors, fold the napkins, pray something new might happen. you swear you can still hear them, even now. before that, the lot was empty, for the longest time. a hut once stood here. small, sad, lonely. a hut of wood and clay, straw and glass. barely anyone took notice of it. the people who lived here were local fishermen, quiet people. kept to themselves, even when they were selling their crayfish. they'd get a few coins every week, jingling in their pockets as they carried the leftovers back home. grey, ugly crayfish. discolored and vile, but the townspeople said they tasted far better than any other crayfish. your flashlight reflects in the glass shards of the large chandelier that hangs overhead. where once people danced and ate crayfish, kept to themselves and talked. the hut once stood here. and for years there was nothing but a tree. now there's dust on a chandelier the couple had flown in from germany, the echoes of laughter and song, and the stench of rotting fish. you feel unwelcome. tonight the full moon shines through the cracks in the roof, casting shadows of owls on the ground before you. you've been here before, somehow.

when I was younger I had a reoccurring dream. every time I would stay at my grandma's house, in my dad's old room, in a cheap bed from ikea that kept getting smaller and smaller. in this dream I couldn't move, the bed had become too small to move, all I could do is to stare straight at the door and listen, to the constant sound of marching. the stairs up to the bedrooms was seemingly older than the rest of the house, wailing at each step you took on it, growling at every pound you put on it. the marching never stopped, endless marching, heavy footsteps whipping at the stairs, splintering wood. I knew my bed wasn't save, with the open door, and mere inches between the dark and the edge of the mattress how could I be. I would push myself into the pillow, pull the blanket up to my nose and wait while the marching droned on, getting louder and louder. I was always sure it was an army of nutcrackers, even if I never saw them, they sounded like an army of nutcrackers. the sound of wood on wood was different to the sound my grandpa made when he walked up the stairs. his heavy boots were soft, gentle, they didn't hurt the stairs, didn't cause them to whine out in agony. the marching however was different, angry, incessant. it felt like the entire house was revolting against the pain inflicted on it. shaking, shifting, changing. it convulsed as it tried to evict the unwanted tenants, and yet they kept marching, ever upwards. eventually the floor would give out, dropping my prison into the basement, it was a long fall. agonizing, not slow, but endless. I couldn't see whatever was behind the marching, it never showed itself. my bed would crash into the concrete and I would be shaken awake violently, gasping for air. my dreams have been black since, empty except for some sound here of there. faint marching still wakes me up every now and then, there's a sense of finality to it now. a memory of staying at grandma's house.

you stand and wait on the porch. for the old dog that started visiting you recently. the plate with leftovers and scraps feels heavier tonight, fuller. down the street, your next next next door neighbor settles down on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket. it's gotten cold recently, too cold to not have proper heating. with a soft sigh he scrolls back through his contacts, none of them have answered his calls, or texts, or emails. couple of weeks now, the boiler still doesn't sing. at least it's not freezing yet. worry is etched on his face, you see it every day on your morning walk, though you have no idea. you could probably help out, but you don't know each other, and he isn't desperate enough yet. give it a few more days. there he comes, the heavy, greying eyes lock onto you. you set the plate down, and take a step back. the dog never seemed dangerous, but he's big, even scrawny as he is now. downtown the firemen swarm around an old school building. a couple of teenagers had played around with fireworks, set the old desks on fire, by accident, of course. none of them would admit the truth, unable to bear the consequences. flames spew from the windows, angry, hurt. the sirens call out even to you, the dog tenses a little at the sound, but continues. "someone's still in there," it's a desperate plea, they had forgotten their friend. they had forgotten the rest of their firework. it all turns out good in the end, as it does. the distant explosion startles you, though the dog seems too focused on eating. it's a good meal tonight, meat, bone, veggies. you squat down, though regret it when you hear the faint, weak growls. he sinks into the clay as he leaves, quietly as always.

pale yellow linoleum floors. how I hated these. the chair squeaks as I lean back, there's a marching band in my head, and a figure before my eyes. her desk, unwieldy, dark, separates us. a face tinged in the light of a monitor. I can't hear her, not right now, not ever. maybe once upon a time. pale yellow. my head hurts just thinking about it. she slides a piece of paper across the hardwood, I can't read what's written on it. fragile, it feels fragile. takes me a moment to realize. the chair squeaks as I lean back, then silence, except for the band in my head. what does she want. oh, right. the next person. outside smells like tar and spring. the sky's grey now, not that it matters, really, I live right around the corner. stop by a friend to grab kebab. ball up the aluminum foil and miss. hard to aim when you can hardly see. maybe I need to lie down. my neighbor's door is open, the lacquer still fresh. new neighbors it seems. not in the mind for talking, wave in passing. I almost drop my keys when I try to unlock mine, the forest green seems to mock me. sink onto a chair, next to leftover breakfast. the chair squeaks, as they do. the ceiling looks different. yellow. turn my head. I can't sleep here, not tonight. it's a prescription, my fingers run over the fragile paper. tomorrow then. the pharmacy's probably closed by now.

and if you aren't real what's the point of all these tired clichés I replicate talking to the specter of a person that might never have existed the way that I wanted to

smoke erupts from your lungs as you stumble out of the bar. nothing left but a few copper coins and a looming hangover. there's already a cab waiting for you. the driver just picked someone up from the airport. a foreigner visiting family. by happenstance they are both from the same part of the world, speak the same language, so they get talking, about how things are back home now, haven't been back in a while, must be different no? the questions are only met with a slight head shake and a despondent look. your ride was paid already, the bartender probably took care of it, or the foreigner you never met, or maybe one of the thousands of gods you say you don't believe in. your boots hardly find purchase on the icy steps up to your apartment. down the street an old couple is fighting. they're usually louder, used to be at least, but it seems their age is starting to affect their voices too. neither of them is talking to each other, it's the same script as every week, only the flubs are different. things never change, still the same hag I married. the word falls from both their mouths, ends their quarrel. it's quiet once more. there's no comfort in bed tonight. it's brick and mortar, concrete slab, brutalism incarnate. your eyes try to focus on the bird still sitting in front of your window, it must have forgotten to leave when the snow came. the sky turns pitch black and you wake up, with a different head than the one you had yesterday.