I was laying on my bed, a place I've come too well over the last few days. I say days, but I really mean weeks. I can't really say weeks, because truth be told I've lost count of the days I've let slip by through idle depression.
You ever comeback to conscious thought, and find yourself on your bed, hand in your pants and unable to remember the last thing you just thought about. Well, a pigeon flew against my window today. Not really the grandeur of Edgar Allen Poe's Raven, but fuck it, I'll take it. I didn't check if it's alive or flew away yet. I barely check if I'm alive these days. Sadly, I don't even know if it was a pigeon at all. Still, I was brought back to reality. Fuck that bird.
It's not that I don't want to be aware, awake or whatever they call it these days. I just wish to be conscious of a reality that isn't as fractured as my own. I love driftless, mindless thoughts. Give me the transient pleasures, frivolous idleness, and I'll happily draw stick men in the sand for you. But no, with one "chirp chirp motherfucker", here I am, writing thoughts to no one really and addressed to no man's land. Fuck that bird.