In front of electronic screens, I'm wasting the hours away. H.B.O. and Cinnemax, Youtube, Facebook, take a look, and hooked for hours on pixels painted. The terrible glow on my skin, in my skin. And in my eyes--my eyes dilated in the dark--in my eyes, an endless procession of movie stars and uploaded friend-pics, slick-quick videos and constant updates. For hours unmoving, sinking deeper and deeper into the quilt covered couch. I am "doing" nothing. It is a waste, and I am wasting away.
Elevated foot. Iced foot. Ibuprofen every four hours, and the swelling fades back into shape. At least it's on its way. I can walk without a limp, but the flesh around my ankle is blue-black and yellow. Mottled. A colored kankle propped on pillows and covered in ice. But things are on the up and up...
If I can tear myself away from the gaping void of electronic nothingness...
Oh I could read, yes. Or I could write, sure. But this would involve moving my ass off of the couch. I would have to find a book, see. Or seek out a pen and paper. And who knows how long either one of these endeavors would take? I might find myself stranded on the kitchen island, or lost in a sea of filthy linens. I might loose my way down the dark corridors of this strange house. I might lock myself in the garage. Who knows? It's a strange world out there, and once you've got a good butt groove working, you find yourself questioning the necessity of moving. Also the necessity of washing oneself, or brushing one's teeth, or putting on clothes at all. Sanity is fleeting in a series of sit-coms.
Wish me luck, as I bask in the unhealthy glow of the pixelated waters surrounding me. Wish me luck as I attempt to navigate this digital sea. Wish me luck as I search for some sight of land--for some island grounded in reality--that is not plugged into a wall outlet.
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