I haven't slept in three nights. R.E.M.'s been playing in the background and there's a constant whirring of the fan, that just keeps going round and round, till I feel like it's going to crash onto my head because of all the effort it's been putting in to go round and round. I've done all the reading I can for the rest of the month. There's just no space in my mind, there's absolutely no space. Instead, there are little holes in my memory that don't seem to return like they usually do. I'm losing bits of my mind and and I don't know where I've left them. I have to leave myself little time capsules so I know I'm not actually losing time. And I'm not, I know. I found twenty five post it notes on the legs of my dining table with little Kafka quotes scribbled on them, dated to last evening. I don't remember writing them and it looks like I've hurriedly scribbled them with my left hand but I wrote them, so I know I wasn't passed out on the cold floor of the Colony bar. I don't even drink. So I'm not sure why I gave that particular anecdote. But I did write those notes. So I know I was home safe with Freud slinking around the house in his general absentee presence.
She knows she's being watched. I can feel the prickling on her subconscious from way out here. She twitches about suddenly, peers from behind her curtain at odd intervals, and even walks around fully clothed. She didn't have as many articles of clothing on when I laid my eyes on her for the very first time. It had been raining heavily for days on end and I was enjoying a cup of black, sugary tea at Yellow's. She had barged in with a friend of hers, both drenched to their freshly painted toes, looking upset with the weather like they hadn't known it had been raining for a whole week by then. I could have kissed those toes. Too young for me, she had looked. And even if she wasn't, what would I have done. I quietly observed. She lit up a cigarette with an enthusiasm I find missing in smokers. She was positively beaming after that first, succulent drag. I can't shift moods that easy, but the sight of her long hair flowing over her white shoulders like a turbulent river had taken me on a raft ride I wasn't going to forget easily. That was almost a month ago. Now she's ingrained into the pores of my skin, so every moment I breathe, I can feel her live across my street.
Night sounds. They're not always bad - like the constant, low whirring of the fan or the crickets wheezing outside the window - they keep the silence out because silence within these four walls can be deafening enough to make me go Van Gogh on short notice. And I'd like to keep my ears on for now. Last night, the sounds were different. Silent swishes in the dark, darting noises, movements made out in deft manipulations of sound waves, amplified in a small room - they terrified both me and my cat. Freud was on his alert best last night, not even blinking for a moment. I knew he was scared because he kept flicking his tail and made hissing noises once in a while. Ah the poor little furball was in knots alright. I played some music to push the noise out of the room. But that only aggravated it even more.The swishing noises soon turned into bellows and rumbles and I'm not sure what exactly happened then because I woke up with my cheek kissing the cold floor this morning. Freud was staring at me with an odd, questioning look, his head cocked to one side, like he's confused. I've never seen that much emotion in his face before but last night must have moved even a gargoyle, leave alone the cat. I will go take a look at my Lolita now, so I can calm my nerves.