His thing

[fiction. and some bits plagiarized] 

He has this thing, sleeping with a pillow on his chest (or on his back when he sleeps on his chest). He prefers the really heavy kind, not the soft pillows they advertise on TV. On some nights he tops it with a thick folded blanket. The added weight comes in handy. Thinking about this he remembers an article about cow chutes. In the more progressive parts of the meat industry they’ve devised cow chutes that hang from assembly lines to carry cows. The chutes wrap around the cows like a blanket of comfort and carry them into the slaughter house. It calms the cows before they die. He thinks this is the whole mystery (and hype, he adds) of happiness. Happiness is a cow chute.  

He’s averse to many forms of touching and can only stand skin comity from souls well met in previous lives. But there have been a few times in a crowded train, he finds himself in the throng of humanity mashed up, when he almost almost feels like he’s not actually alone. 

He can only stand kids that are pleasant. And only for very short periods. And maybe sometimes when they are all about smudges in the face. But he could never never handle the wailers.  

He can’t remember if he cried falling asleep. Nor remember dreaming. He piled on two pillows and that seemed to help. 

He’s never cared for the moon but since she mentioned the fucker he can’t seem to get enough of it.     

~ by amats on March 3, 2008.