Rook the Librarian (gisho) wrote,
Rook the Librarian

  • Music:

Fiction snippet: "Looked at the moon"

Same main character as "Cables."

I don't sleep anymore.

I havn't slept in a long time, not counting the drugs, not counting my little naps, because only a nut or a thrillseeker or a serious hacker plugs while awake and I'm none of those. I might be a hacker sometime but for now, no.

I've got enough to worry about. After all. I've got plenty to worry about.

I first noticed it years ago. I started having insomnia, but I could go to sleep if I really wanted to. I never wanted to. I wanted to stay awake. One day I jsut decided to ... stay awake. As long as possible, as long as I could. And I never went back to sleep. I don't miss it.

I like standing up here lookign over the city. I never understood why people think looking at the stars makes them feel small and looking at the city makes them feel small too. The city is a human thing. I admire it, but on some small level I can't help but despise it.

I tap my joint out against my knee and watch the ash drift down a hundred stories. I always sit on top of the tallest building that I can. The farther you are from the ground the less the pollution can reach you. The lights speed by. I don't know why I bother with the joint. It's something to do, maybe. Something to keep my mind off things. The moon is gibbous, and if you were standing on the sidewalk you'd never see it past the falshing signs.

Distance brings perspective. Distance helps. It brings detachment. I am detached by nature, but every little bit helps. I am not the type to go far away, hide myself in a cabin in the mountains. That is not detachment. That is running away. It's wrapping yourself up in isolation. The better path is instead to skate on the edge of things. I have done this all my life. Keep yourself close enough to be one of them, far away enough not to be corrupted.

It occurs to me that it's cold up here. That's alright. It just feels better, looking far below me where everyone is wrapped up in warmth and the light is blinding. I don't like the light. The light brings everyhting out.

Up here you can almost see the moon.

I killed another lover last night. I'd spend weeks on him. He'd fallen for me like a leaf. It took a bit but it was inevitable, and oh so gentle, such a gentle end. I always like to kill them slowly. They never feel it coming. The pain is soft and slow and gentle that by the time they realize it is pain their eyes are drifitng shut and they cannot be upset. There's plenty of people walking the street tonight. There they are, boys with their adolescent swagger and girls in their coquettish little dresses, delaying their sleep.

I don't sleep anymore. I havn't for a long time. It doesn't matter anymore. Very little does to me.

I take the last drag on the joint (something for my fingers to do, and my lungs, and my heart) and drop it over the edge. Perhaps someone will find it. More likely it will end up in the gutter.

I can't be them and I never will. Not even in dreams.



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