I numb my mind and retreat into the safe places, because it is easier to live a happy life backwards than a disappointing one forwards. I tell her this, but then I fall asleep in her navel, and when I wake up the world is full of plans again. She would’ve made a great war general, but there are no wars big enough for her mind these days… no grand epics where sixty thousand people stand in lines in a field and cleave each other’s arms and legs from their sockets.
She told me; I don’t dream anymore, I just lie through pieces of sleep where I know I cannot be harmed.
The problem as I see it is this; too many people, with whom she forms intimate connections with, end up dead. And it isn’t always her fault. I see her in fields of failing wheat trying to outglare sunsets. I see her up to her knees in water trying to change the course of waterfalls, trying to open curtains to other realms. I sit as a passenger in her car as she blasts two grooves into the tarmac, naked and gruesome as birth, hurling abuse at anything unlucky enough to be enjoying an evening stroll on our route.
I tell her to stop drinking. She replies; I will stop drinking when you can present me with a better alternative to sobriety. And it is hard to disagree with that. We share the same brown bottles. We share oblivion.