The Mixed Tape

The morning began like any other, my cheek slamming onto the rim of my favourite porcelain convenience, head swimming with glimpses into last nights antics, what little I can decipher is of course, the most embarrassing of events ever undertaken by any human male. Stripping on the bar room table is the least of my worries, try doing it in the middle of the street and trying to attack young girls with a certain appendageâ??no wonder I have a bad reputation.

Along with remembering the night before, with what little room my memory has left I remember why it was I went out in the first place, I never forget why really, it's just the mornings I spend like this that it runs through my mind more vividly. The alcohol still running in my blood stream and the after effects of what ever cocktail of drugs I have taken must weaken my resolve to forget such memories, I remember what it is I lost, what I gave up, what I love. It becomes apparent in that instant, if I never think it again until I'm in the same positionâ??none of the life I'm living is it.

I should have noticed the warning signs in the early days that this was how I would end up, my very affectionate opinion towards drugs, alcohol and any substance that would numb my mind and body of all thought was bound to end in trouble. Now, every morning instead of opening the curtains I close them even tighter, including the ones located inside my mind, I close up so tightly that no light can escape, or penetrate my force field; My shield against emotional pain and suffering. Some days I think purely on my own emotions, others I block out with yet more intoxication. Then some days, when the most clarity has seeped its way through my fort of control, I wonder if she feels the same yet, wonder if her curtains are drawn or is someone opening them for her of a morning? Is she thinking about what I gave up too?

Where is she? I haven't seen her face in so long I wonder if my approximation is accurate, wonder if I remember correctly. This day, if shaping up to be a normal one, I'll swallow some more pills, snort some more powder, or smoke something other than tobacco and turn my stereo up so loud that my non-existent neighbours would be complaining. A luxury I can afford is to have no neighbours, I wonder if money can buy memory maintenance. If so, what memories would I choose to remove? Which to keep? With my stereo so loud I swim through the music, my back on my bed, the usual spot now a groove in my mattress, Maybe now is the point the phone will begin ringing, to ask how I am, remind me of last night or simply to ask where I have been for the last three months, I don't knowâ??I stopped answering it a long time ago.

Changing the track I realise I'm playing songs that remind me of her, the ones we liked together, played together, made love to. Then again they could simply be the ones whose lyrics are a complete representation of my feelings towards her. This day I might get up and compile them all into one place, but I haven't decided yet, the intoxication hasn't yet kicked inâ??I can still feel.

When it does, some thirty minutes later, when the room spins slightly and the focus on my eye lenses becomes ever so slightly hazy, I pick up the same piece of paper I read yesterday, the one she left the last time she stepped foot in my house, when she removed every object ever to remind me of her. If she hadn't however, I probably would have.

The letter said that she meant it when she said you'd marry me, said that she'd "never forget me" that she "would always love me" my argument has always been, that if that was so true then why on earth did she leave? Why never speak to me again?

Oh where is she? After that note there was nothing, no contact with her in three months, which, in my opinion is too long for anything. I sink back into the music at this point, mentally mapping out how I would structure the songs on my misery's mix tape. The tape to elevate or dampen my mood to a state I think it should be at any given time. I do this to stop thinking of her location, keep my mind off it, once I have a general idea of the listing I rearrange it, make it better, add a song, take one away... lead the listener through a journey of emotion and spelling out a story of heartache and misery that I experienced.

By the time I'm finished, by the time my mind is returned to me the list is red hot, burning any who listen to it with my tale of rejection and misinterpreted answers to questions I built up my confidence for; for too long.

But I wasn't thinking of just anyone listening to it, I was thinking of her.

Then of course, is the next question, and by this time the cotton wool that is drugs on my brain is beginning to fog up immensely, how do I get it to her?

Where is she?

First of course, I sit, I sit in silence while I record the tracks to tape, a gentle whirring of the tape turning around is what my intoxicated mind occupies itself with, leaping from my groove in the mattress I place myself upon my deep piled carpet, never before appreciating its comfort.

I record track after track, reaching for a different disc every now and again, searching for one for the middle, all the while thinking of how she would react to every one... how each would touch her, bring her mood to what I want it to be, how each would control her.

And where is she?

I repeat over and over.

Maybe I'll never know but I'll have the tape, the tape I made for her... and maybe tomorrow it will be something different, maybe it will be the same.

Maybe I'll write my own song, to go on the end.