Self Potrait, Casey Corcoran

self portrait / friday night

drunk again on this stupid couch. ‘ugh’. that was my brain, or my soul, or whatever. it doesn’t really matter. eventually whatever it is will finally shut up at which point no one’s gonna care. so back to my night; here i am, 6 beers brewing up some sort of storm inside my head. i am staring at a wall and thinking hey, i’m not so special, right? i look out my window and feel like an airplane just sort of floating there. they tell me not to do this, i have to stop doing this. not the beer, i mean that part’s alright, but the boredom! that useless, persistent one way mirror of self-reflection.

so at this point i’m in the bathroom and my face keeps changing in the glass. my face leaves my eyes and hits the mirror then bounces back and pierces straight through my fucking iris and the pain is excruciating. to hell with those laser eye surgery horror stories, i’ve heard them all. lasers burning through corneas; theologians discussing soul music. i know what i am and i know that if this dirty mirror is a liar then i’ll never be able to see my own face.

anyways, i take a piss and now i’m back on the couch and i know i have to stop thinking about myself because a man shouldn’t be so selfish. what would my mother say? so i start to think about you instead. by now that inclement weather inside my mind’s evolved into a monsoon, i mean a full blown shit storm. fucking hurricane Cindy. i can hear the alarm sounding, ‘BRAAAYNK BRAAAYNK BRAAAYNK’ and it’s hard to think but i can still feel. i can feel so much. i can feel the people running for shelter and i can feel those people swallowed by all that water who are just floating there so i crack open another beer and everything starts to sound better, ‘KSHHH’.

the eye of the storm.

who would want to be cremated, anyways? i mean, i’ve never been too religious but i think i’d much rather be a rotting worm factory than swallowed whole by all that hell fire. seems to be starting you off on the wrong foot if you believe in the idea of eternity, anyways.

i’m looking out the window again and i still feel like an airplane but i’m losing altitude at an alarming rate, dropping towards the grey pavement that mirrors the cloudy sky i’m finally leaving. i take another sip of beer and wonder why things keep getting worse and i know i don’t want to think about this. i’m just so bored, you know? i’m trying to focus on you. i want to know where you are and how you feel and if you feel. i can’t think about someone without thinking of them in relation to myself, though, and this is my problem and this is also everyone else’s problem. how does what happened to you affect me? your life and my life are just this messy amalgamation in my brain and i can’t separate them no matter how hard i try or how desperate i am. like trying to hide the morning from the sun.



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