Anchorite Asceticism, 1

After, I banished myself to the desert, to sleep by myself in the lovely, dry cold – famished, excited to rise from the folds of the tattered old blankets you levied like statements: fear not the loneliness, dryness, or cold. I came here with blankets, matches, strings for a guitar that was merely one of the things I had to leave, too stocked on rice and pans and brash impulsive reckless plans. I believe there were cigarettes for maybe, oh a week or two. I could only take a few boxes and you know how much I – well, used to.

But waking alone, I mean truly forsaken, is lovely, dry and cold. I was mistaken but now I’m awake and there’s no chance that someone will hold me as I am shivering, begging the fire to grow the fuck up, or when I’m tired of walking and listening, reading my books, cataloguing my stuff and there is some comfort in knowing the truth: that it’s not sisters or substance abuse but yellows and sages and gl0rious blues which a man can rely on to be at his call, no matter how hard or how far he may fall.


~ by perfectionatrix on January 8, 2010.

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