Being Honest With Fiction

Blades from the ceiling fan spun beneath lights and flickered in shadows against the white cinder-block walls.
I’ve had this dream before…
I know exactly where I am.
But I don’t know why and I’m not sure how I got there.

The sound dulled into low volumes of electricity.
All l heard was a buzzing sound..
I heard the sound of a soft metallic hum given off by the overhead fluorescent lighting.
And if you don’t know, then I guess you wouldn’t know what the sound of fluorescent lighting sounds like.
But I know.

My left wrist was cuffed to a galvanized pipe, which ran beneath a wooden bench.
This was to keep me still.
I’ve been there before.
In the holding cages.
I was here more than once, if I’m being honest.
But not in a while.
There was a cold and haunting feeling inside this place, which was otherwise something of a booking station or a  legal waiting room that separated me from the place I was before.

Sometimes the dream shakes me.
Sometimes, I think the dream is real.
I found myself thinking and searching for an alibi. I tried to come up with something as if to recreate a story to talk my way out of this.
But no matter how I try and talk, my jaw was stuck, as if it had been glued shut.
I had no idea why I was there.
I had no idea what I had done
I had no idea where to begin.

The dreams are the same always slightly different.
I’m alone sometimes. Sometimes, I sit across from junkies with dream faces, like grey shadows or like some kind of haunted ghost.
Some dreams have me sitting across from longhaired memories of people from my past. Sometimes, I’m in the drunk tank and sitting with old men with hair so white that it almost looks yellow.

I am frightened, but at the same time, I’m aware that I’m dreaming. 
I know I just have to ride this out.
I know I’m supposed to pay attention and learn something.
These dreams happen whenever I feel trapped or there’s too much going on at once.

Like now….

Things have been busy lately.
Life has been twisting and turning.
Bills are piling up.
The hours are long and I run into myself at the door.

If it weren’t for the idea of having you or writing you, then I don’t know how I would deal with the stress.

For example, I ran into the son of an old co-worker.
I saw what happened to my old friend.
I saw how age took advantage and I saw how he’s in a wheelchair now, old as ever, and with breathing tubes in his nose.
what the fuck . . .
I was reminded of someone he and I worked with and how they used to tease me and laugh at me.

They used to ask, “You still trying to be a writer?”
I’d always shrug him off, because there was nothing else I could do
…except crucify him with my fiction.

I am older now too.
I have to see things differently.
I don’t want to get old or grow so old that I lose the use of my legs.
I don’t want to become bitter and live in an old folks home or some kind of assisted living place.
I don’t want to die alone . . .
Please.
Not that!
I don’t want to wear diapers.
Or have to be bathed or eat stewed carrots and peas because that’s all my stomach can process. 

Life . .  .
Age . . .
Time . . .

All three are happening to me at once.
And yes, I can dig it.
It could be worse.
And it can be worse
Unless . . .
I make a change

Nothing is worse than losing your freedom.
Wait, no.
Losing the love of your life.
I suppose this is my biggest fear.
Hence, the jailhouse nightmares and the dreams of being locked up
and losing all that I have left..

Ah, Vincent.
You crazy bastard. . .
I wish you well