The following is A string of thoughts, fiction, and poetry strung together randomly and indecipherably for your inconvenience
My home is not like other homes, which is not to suggest some supernatural element has taken hold onto my life as one might infer due to the context of this passage—but what I mean to say about my home is that the basement floor has yet to be discovered—at least by me anyway.
I’m quite desperate to make sense of several happenings in my life, so expect this text to contain only relevant information—it will be concise and substantial. I simply wish for you to know and understand this plight without walking away.
I must have been the first to walk away from myself. Not physically—I have never had anywhere to go. In a way, the direction of time has manifested itself as a single path.
Some mornings I would see a child wandering from a building mostly hidden by its stone walls.
I would see him like a smudge of blue disappearing and reappearing between the old trees that seemed to be made of stone themselves.
On the other hand, that doesn’t matter much at all. I’m trying to find a way to be concise and direct, but I’ve found, after no time at all, that I have nothing to be direct about. Apparently, I haven’t the slightest idea who I am. What colors do I see in the morning? Where is the god to build my universe? With every moment, a new possible morning, but he hasn’t called for the rise of any sun or body or anything, let alone an adventure. My bedroom becomes a frightening and deep purple when the morning comes too early and with too little sun. I wish to be truthful but not boring. Impossible! But I will try, and I’ll begin by telling you the initial occurrence. I meant to follow that child, the blue smudge, and see were he might take me.
When the mornings are brighter I remain in bed with my eyes open, but with my mind still meandering in its own filth. That one girl, I’ll think, she is with me. I’m at a house as young man should be, a social gathering from a party, or maybe its a formal event that I was invited to because of something involving my success—success as something, maybe for now I will be a scientist. Yes I’m a scientist. Young and blossoming and I’m with a girl and I’ve invented a relatively cheap device that exponentially facilitates the rate at which we can amass anti matter, or anything else. I’m there with the girl, she is there and I see her with me, struggling to share with me that she is shameless and blind enough to fall for someone like me, a scientist guilty of madness and heartbreak. Does she kiss me? Yes, the girl kisses me on the cheek, but suddenly she isn’t right beside me: the scene begins again but differently. She is across from me at the door way of the room? Is it crowded like a party? No, no it is not, we are at a room of the house or maybe its not a house, but we are there and she walks toward me with her drink. And then I say nothing. I refuse to indulge in those fantasies any longer. They’ve already robbed me of my youthful energy, my happiness. Life, as I’m told, only gets more difficult, and I hate to imagine that I’ve squandered the most precious moments on nothing. Can I help it if whores who tempt my dreams surround me? I shoo away the girl in the room and remind myself that I am not a scientist, and that I am not in any such room at a party in a house or building. What color should I have imagined her hair? But the vision is already disintegrating. Who was it that told me to stop dreaming? Was it my sister? Do I have a sister? Perhaps an uncle. How could it have been an uncle? My family lives far away.
Eventually, my thoughts settle. I’m staring at the window. To me it looks like a bizarre abstract sculpture attempting to show the cleanliness of an idealized version of future homes, white and sparse. The right half of my face has submerged into my pillow, and I notice how if I focus, I can see the darkness that my right eye can see. The window with all its emptiness becomes layered with the menacing colors of dreams. A vortex made of alien flesh briefly devours me, but I forget about dreams once more and look at my hand. Its very much like a beautiful mountain, as if it belonged in some painting by Monet. It looks impressively large when held close to my eyes. I pay close attention to all the little hairs poking up from the unexplored landscape. The hairs, I tell myself, have become lost in their own strife. They’ve divided themselves into two opposing factions and have been waging a terrible war for dominance of the entire hand. Visions of death, of innocent follicles uprooted and cut, curling and crying in agony beneath the war-torn skies of white like the emptiness of death! I shake my hand and hold it for a few moments as if to anticipate pain. The window is a white window, my hand is only hand, my bed has to be made, and there is in fact a door at the end of the room. At the door at the end of my room there is no girl of my dreams waiting to greet me—there is only a door, and beyond that, there is perhaps another door—but beyond that door there is an entire world to be explored. Which is exactly what I have been meaning to tell you about.
No one has cried, and no stories have been told, but something awful has happened. My cosmic battle has been lost.
Welcome to nothing. It is everywhere.
I know this because wherever I look
I see it, even in myself
–what’s there?
It’s nothing.
Cowards beware, this contains material intended for mad men only.
I am away from people. My soul is cleansed, I am agitated by my family. They ruin solitude. Nothing to say. Nothing to think. I’ve forgotten how to think, how to utter words. I can no longer fathom beauty. I tried to hold it with my words like nets, to spear it wit my wit, my harpoon of rhetoric, something as misunderstood and elusive as a whale. I’ve forgotten how, like a breathless child in winter’s silent void, I’d let you be my distant sun. There is no one in this room.
A white light, a speck on a broken
pathway in the snow
grew larger and touched
my blue receding show
That light chased after me though
the arches of the trees
I wonder why it felt compelled to follow
I let people, not here nor
there, not real I recall
while gazing at
the barren table
I don’t know why
their voices sound or
what to write or if I’m even able
to observe these faces walking by, I let them in
to dream with me.
A melody arose in me,
a rose not blessed with a single petal
for no song can be held a loft
by a dear friend or his horns
for a dream of a smile
behind a wall of memory
the impenetrable glass
the gravity of time whose spine
like the stem of a damned rose
would chase me only forward
away from my dream
of your smile, how you adored
to be adored, while I, a door
only open to myself, would pen
of opulent
A dormant note may reach again
for the surface of my mind
to swing on the branches of
my outspread hand, marveling
at the sky whose lens was so
reminiscent of my dream
of your smile, perched on
the S of your spine, a mile in length
There is a laughing like needles
on the wood of a darkened hall
There are laughing voices
from jesters
in chairs that rock in a basement
cupboard where I hear
there is laughter
like chisels on the board
of the shut doors
the handles I’ll never
grasp again
never open, not here
not at night as I hear
there are painted faces
laughing in me,
poking at my skull,
the lining of my skin
I’m attempting to discern whether people are fundamentally different or the same, and, in addition, if this duality is one existing only in the mind, if it is only another faulty attempt to label and organize ourselves. And if such attempts to find truth where truth can only spread so far as perception, and is limited to subjective reality as a frame of reference, then I imagine we must settle for this subjective version of truth.
If life is but a dream, just a series of information and sensations with beginnings and ends shrouded by nothingness, then we can simply continue living in that dream or in that life, without worrying over its legitimacy.
Truth is a relative thing, but we can only conclude that (our) truth is relative because we are in someway conscious of a more absolute truth that exists beyond our perception and way of being. Truth exists regardless of our impressions of it, not as something to see within or outside of ourselves, but as something parallel and invisible. It is another dimension, one comprised of everything that exists. It is the objective reality. We can only pretend to know it. It is paradoxical, how I feel I can logically infer that there is “being” beyond this subjective world of mine.
I’m on a tangent.
If people are fundamentally the same, I will use this truth to justify being bold and sincere to others, hence we are the same in essence, and they will greet my humanity with their own experiences, their private truth that is in actuality a truth shared by all. Books and literature follow this mindset. They connect to people, they expose those lonely, repeated lives, the horrors and nuances of our anxiety. Thus, when one is failed by others, or fails to forge a connection, they will turn to literature.
But what if it is irresponsible to make those bold claims, and people are simply people, and experiences simply have their own details, their own series of colors and sensations without a definitive patterns stringing them all together—and no absolute truth to guide connection…
–I might have to alter my approach entirely: Rather than focus on the duality or the fallacy of its existence, I can take an active role in exploration. I will carry out experiments in the midst of boring routine. To think is not enough, I must also live.
It is vanity to write without living, as Thoreau says.
Maybe a riddle…
Everyone in my world smiles
I only laugh when no one sees
or all are watching
who am I?
Things to explore in detail at some point:
-am I evil?
-is there a monster in my soul?
About that. Love is hormones. Issue resolved.
All is hormones, for that is what they are: Sensations, but always, they are there, and their existence cannot be written off by simply stating an arbitrary label or confining it to an arbitrary frame of reference. Love is romanticized interpretation of lust resulting from my self absorbed life style, my self centered story telling drama obsessed mind.
“do you long to smell her? To sniff her all over like a blood hound? Fruff fruff fruff fruff fruff fruff—that’s the sound it will make when you are a blood hound scavenging her vulnerable body for love”
“I can just imagine the sensations she will feel, the startling needle pricks from the dampness of your blubbering nose, your whiskers, as cold as icicles just nibbling at her bear skin every which way”
–what yezen will do to Japanese girls as soon as he becomes a blood hound.
I dreamt I was in another world. My friends were all there with me. And there were many doors to be opened. I was cooking vegetables and chicken in order to trick the singer Bjork into marrying me. I was in a small dark apartment with my dad. I was at school, looking at my friend’s self portrait. I began to paint on it without thinking, He was mildly upset, so were my other friends. It didn’t matter. I made the hair look better anyway. We were outside. I was trying to think if I was skipping class or not. It was finals week and I wasn’t sure which classes I still had to finish. I dreamt I was a magical adventurer in a stone palace with many great doors of marble. A stream ran through the courtyard, but it sometimes become a chaotic flood. I’d go into doors to enter new dreams and I’d exit through the doors as I left.
Dreams are vivid. As we experience them, they become like memories, distant and quickly vanishing. When we awaken. Every moment of being, we are thus awakening from the dream of the past, every moment previous becomes as distant and hostile and unreachable as a dream. We know dreams more than we realize. I dreamt I was looking at my journals, looking at polaroid pictures of girls I thought I was in love with, I know that it wasn’t real, because some of the pictures there were one’s I’d never seen before. I told myself that a friend must have taken the pictures and put them there. It’s interesting how, even in dreams, we rationalize. It is interesting, how in dreams we are ourselves lost inside of our selves, as if we have pried the sense of self away from the rest of the mind so that it may enter as a separate being. Perhaps we intend to disassociate our self prescribed identities away from the mind, and then not be accountable for the inane and insane and disturbing things we find there as we explore in dreams.
It’s all information. We create our own patterns. Coincidences are tools of perception that we use to deceptively add depth to stories, our own in particular.
I like to sit in the big chairs, the tall thrones, so my legs are free to kick back and forth and I remember what it’s like to be a careless child.
I am in a backwards world, where to myself I am everything, and to everything I am nothing.
I am no one.
Something in the sound of my life,
the fork ringing as it hits a plate
the crinkling papers and folding cloth
reminds me that in this world I am but a humble protagonist
who idly and who sadly goes
about his day without repose
he waits, for life, for his rising sun
for wind or a hand to ring his bell
for daunting knots to be undone
and he emerge from the wounded shell
I am in a backwards world
A lantern of glass color smiles
I awake in the night, I say
the night,
my lonely feet mark the aisles
At the very last, when all love and hate have been rectified, and all beauty, every surge of feeling reduced to a mere illusion, shall I, the humble human, toss out my hard found truth and laugh with the night once more, of impossible dreams and the heart beat of some fleeting essence, another pair of eyes an exchange of gestures and bear skin.
No! only a dream, only a dream.
I shall continue laughing in the dark.
“I was born in darkness, I fought my way out of the blue”
It seems that happy memories only make the present look remorseful in comparison, and that the unfulfilled memories only weigh down the present with regret. There is no escaping unhappiness, save for ceasing to recall one’s life or self all together. A search for truth, does it lie within the mind or does it float in the outside world?
Or is this another fabricated duality, a self imposed curse of anxiety? I must keep searching.
There is a certain threshold of loneliness that one passes, and once they do, they can never emerge from solitude. They have become too familiar with its smell, how it feels to walk, to breath and blink. Once you become acquainted with loneliness, it follows, and you realize that it has always been there. It takes the form of a lost creature, an alien version of yourself, wearing a mask in an open forest of fog and dim purple light. It greets you. It explores you, and feeling confused and intimidated, you do the same. But you will never exit that strange place, you will never shale the grip of that freighting beast, for you’ve always been there, that forest of faded light is everywhere, and that masked figure is your shadow. In the living rooms of drunken friends I saw a vine slithering up a table leg. I saw the creature scurry through a vent. From the kitchen came the terrible fog. All things become silent in my world.
By curtains low in a room once white
a painting done with clotting blood
And in the bed a petty sight
a man reduced to weeping mud
His bones like tilting
bows of glass
will fall as wilting
leaves to grass
any step to the door dear friend
make your step to the door
you let the kind hearts enter
they fill the room like fog (in fog)
to open up the artist’s chest
to marvel under high gardens
of pictures form the walls
like the hanging gardens, lost
memories without their masters
they find a home in his heart
on the walls of his world
so far away
but never alone
I cannot know the unknown. Our love for fiction has turned our lives into fiction.
During Christmas, I witnessed the idiocy of my reunited family’s dysfunction. I felt that every tear they shed and every shout they coughed out was just another stage prop, every projected feeling a fabrication. People these days (or perhaps for all time) have an addiction for the unreal. We pry ourselves away from life with fiction, with our best selling novels, our movies, our television drama, and eventually our celebrity worship. We learn to understand the imaginary and to treat it as real, to search for character development, symbols, themes, and plots. We learn to recognize what, from the distant perspective of a reader, gives the human being depth and narrative. From fiction, in a sense, we become acquainted with ourselves and each other in a startling way. The mask is lifted—or perhaps replaced. Whether the fiction or drama that traps us is substantial or not, it lures us into an altered paradigm, one where we needlessly elevate personal conflict and drama, where we attempt to attach ourselves on to life as we might attach ourselves to an engrossing novel. Where, then, is the legitimacy of human emotion and action? We are, perhaps all just clever liars and actors.
We cry for each other only in jest, we vomit our words and think of our dreams before we fall asleep, explore them before we awaken, and mourn on their graves throughout the day (all our waking lives).
And its so compelling to us—privately.
I wonder if we all recognize our emotional investments are bull shit? Is it simply my own projection? Do we share these basic tendencies or am I simply emotionally detached? I am in a bizarre peace. My emotional waves have been ridden. I am pacing on a clean shore. There is no voluptuous whore to dream of, no face floating in the abyss of my closed eyes, my pen is shaking, but not because of my hormones, my fake heart and rampaging confessions of “love”. It is hard at work, my pen is—is hard at work, fleshing out the nuances and gears of some philosophy, one observed in the patterns of life, high lighted in these bizarrely peaceful moments.
Where is my prize? What reward does the cosmos send my way like a meteor, what wench has the stomach to rattle my bones and warm my bed? How long have I believed in a cosmic entitlement to get laid? But the stars and spaces in between—not just between stars but between the days and awkward conversations with acquaintances—do not care for my petty dreams or for my lingering erections. Reward? Fuck you say the stars! Fuck you says the face of a tragic, porcelain clown. I look at him, frozen and sad, and I say “yes, fuck me” for expecting absolute nothingness to gift me anything. Why do I feel the need to “discover” the gem of romance, when the universe has already fucked me by default? Truth is all the love I need.
Young and unsure, Alejandro emotionally declares emotion to be a waste of time in order to ease the fictional sorrow of lonely virginity.
At night I dream of nothing.
Person one is on a dissociative. Person two is on a psychedelic. They cannot interact. They are strolling in opposite directions, on train tracks parallel to each other.
I continue to dream lucidly and to invest another step to a door down a sunlit hall. The walls are a light blue. You imagine clouds at the ceiling. It is morning in the summer.
I walk away from life.
I walk into an unreal room,
a prisoner in an infinite world.
The feeling comes with white noise
He sits in a chair as if sifting through dangling columns of strange scents and deep jungle vines.
I know how the world will end.
It will end in a flood of tears, all spilled for me, for I am going to be a star. A star that can burn forever but decides to burst.
I spend my day watching friends without hope, only the mindless metronome of drugs in their systems. I’m Switzerland. Explore the wondrous caverns of the inebriated temple. Your mucus and failing limbs. You are both sitting without speaking. I am the night’s designated thinker.
I waste away on my own drug, the potent addiction to narrative.
Its all circular!
I obsess over a duality, a question with two conflicting but plausible answers, in order to be driven insane, to create drama, to amuse myself, and I analyze that dilemma in the larger context of my obsession with narrative, and how fiction causes one to view life as a detached narrative, and I then wonder whether the validity of this observation doesn’t just create another fake duality. commas commas commas
I watched Mad Men.
I don’t sleep. I’m sick but I don’t sleep. Instead I watch Mad Men. Bradbury was right. The characters, the nuances, the gradual rise in tension, and the dynamic character, Peggy, like an unsung hero, subtle tears and frustrations in every carefully constructed dinner scene, the symbolism, the painfully human search for love, the desperate longing for control, the power to do what is right! I am lost in this world.
They are my friends, my family. I cry when they cry. I laugh with them. I laugh when they cry. I stare dead into their eyes. The acting is so flawless. It’s as if I am the one who is acting, my life, so empty and without direction and engaging story and without beauty—is some facade! It cannot be! I am a liar to live without beauty, with truth but without color. I walk home in a pointless January wind. For some reason, I see life from many angles—camera angles.
I do not feel quite right. Something is missing. I feel as if I am not here. All the lights look yellow, almost nauseating and dizzy. A world coated in bile like a fever. Every moment I awaken from a slumber against my will. What is the sensation of being? What does one feel? Something is missing. Something escapes me. Something is missing.
I feel. I have felt the pull of the sun. Gravity warping me forward in time. My skin is being pulled ahead of me. Every once in a while, I become conscious of myself. I observe my surroundings, I look at the light and how dead it looks on all of my trash: the book I haven’t read, the used tissues and pencils gathering dead skin on my key board. What a boring life. I imagine my existence as a few moments of clarity strung together by long spans of confusion. I am falling through life, It feels like a bad dream as a result of certain flaws. Its all very meaningless now. While I may be aware of certain things, like the fact that I have no need to worry, that my life is really rather fortunate, that all things are connected and people are not actually alone, and a bunch of other crap—I still cannot help but mope. It seems that truth doesn’t set us free, at least, not if we are lazy. Life may just be some dream-like string of nonsense. I feel as if we all know it. As if the true nature of things were grinning at us always perched on a tall shelf, dressed as a porcelain joker. His cheeks are red and his exaggerated features disturb me. Don’t we all know that life is a dream? Don’t we all know that it will end? That we are all connected, it’s simple, monotonous, inescapable. I am so very bored.
I write, with some remorse, about the gems in my mind. Those rare and wonderful thoughts that sound of genius, but I forget to include the greater context. Without the impact of my life gradually developing, my personal revelations do not carry as much weight. No conclusion or truth will appear to be an end or a truth if a sufficient path hasn’t traveled to get to it. We cannot see the sun without enduring the night or whatever nonsense. I used to fear that life would never end. At the end of a path I would find another road, with bricks almost peeling away from the dirt. I stumble in the small pot-holes and savor the short stretches of smooth stones.
What joy, I’ll tell myself, to tread the easy ground for a time. It’s so nice to place a new step, but soon I’ll run out of that welcoming patch. Why do I insist on moving forward?
…away from the reassuring footsteps. People were meant to exist in a chronological sequence, but memory is like the peculiar cog with gimmicks and cracks, it turns the wrong way and we find ourselves turning around on that path, searching again of the old happiness of the softer ground, only to find that we’ve left unpleasant tracks, and the bricks aren’t as hospitable. The more we pace and retrace our thoughts and memories and careful footsteps, the more impossible they become to relive.
Do not dwell, but still dwell so as to know to never dwell—sayeth the cog of memory. The gear we like to fiddle with. It turns our lives into shameless Greek myths and tragedies.
My sister once told me that if I continued to joke and laugh and make fun of everything, that I’d lose my grasp on what was real. She was right. I no longer know what I believe. I cannot distinguish between my own seriousness and my own jokes, between tears and laughter, from suffering and satire.
What is genuine? What is a joke? It is simply another duality to be ignored.
I drank wine. Felt good, told a pretty girl I loved her. She walked away. I said it was like walking away from a dream. Then I walked away, not by choice, but by necessity without helping it. I try to savor the experience, and when that fails, I savor the memory. I sabotage the future.
My daily routine preserves my humanity.
People only become people when they communicate with each other. Maybe
Words aren’t even necessary. I manage quite well in colloquial conversations. The words themselves amount to nothing. What matters is the atmosphere and energy of the situation, and one’s expression. I make sounds, then they make sounds. I make more sounds. So do they, we smile. Friendship.
On an unrelated subject:
In my drawing, I am attempting to create an immersible vision of my private world. I do not wish to impose a single, clear composition on to the viewer, but overwhelm them in a way that they are free to explore and discover their own compositions all intertwined in the chaos of the larger scene. While individual pieces carry their own specific concepts, the general approach is to share my world in a way that can be seen as a refreshing journey.
Another important aspect of my drawings is that they depict subjects (individuals) confronted by confusing environments, which is a reflection of not only my existence, but also the existences of all other people. There lies a paradoxical urge to escape the dream world depicted in the drawing, and a realization that one’s current reality is that of a dream world already, but escape is impossible. I’m left to wonder whether I value the stability of a “certain” and grounded world, or an infinite and chaotic world of the mind—or perhaps the over bearing truth is that these two realities overlap in unforeseen ways.
Something else.
What is the nature of reality?
My philosophy centers around the torn individual, unsure as to whether he is bound to humble humanity, to his emotional weakness and narrative, or whether he is meant to strive for some remote and enlightened perspective. He longs for celestial clarity, to open doors as a wizard does, to other worlds. Thus, his human desires are perpetuated by his delusions and dreams of wisdom, and he remains human. Paradoxically, the only genuine way to achieve the dreamed of wisdom is to accept his humanity, but to continue striving for intelligence planted firmly in reality and not on the foundation that he is a god among fools.
The duality continues. Is he an individual at all? Or is the illusion of the isolated mind simply that, illusion. That illusion seems to have been placed there. Is it the purpose of sentience, so that the objective becomes subjective, so that the universe can close a door on itself and wonder what dreams are churning on the other side?
Something about mania appeals to me. A senseless call to action appeals to the narrative. And also to the blatant truth: existence is profound, more profound, even, than the stories we imagine and indulge in, for our delusions are still encompassed within the scope of existence, and cannot, being only a part, exceed the whole universe in scale of absurdity or sheer splendor.
The human being is not an independent center of anything, it is like a tangent in thought, a connection in a universe composed of everything. And by everything, I mean everything. Every thought and abstract fantasy even, have been produced by nature. The notion that we are separate seems to be some necessary evil. The mind must believe in certain falsehoods to a point in order to preserve itself. To put it in a narrative form, the universe, in an extreme attempt to explore itself diversely, must also explore what is real as well as what is unreal. The subjective mind acts as a limitless factory for delusion, creating an inconceivably large dimension of bull shit to be made sense of. Delusion is real, it exists as delusion. Our universe, and I conclude this by simple observation, is asking “what if?”. Curiosity is our purpose. Happiness is not a purpose. Happiness is a chemical in our brain that sometimes prevents us from committing suicide and escaping the important task of exploring.
In accordance with my logic, I determine interesting stories, and consequently dreams—to be real.
I’ve realized an interesting thought: that because I am certain that things exist, and that reality exists as it does, regardless of my understandings or misunderstandings, truth must also be this way. Of course, I enjoy curiosity and the search for the unknown, but I am comforted by the certainty that the uncertainty of reality is to itself certain, and that my own confusion is not the confusion of the objective universe. The universe, however chaotic it appears, is at peace with itself.
On Art, poetry, and philosophy:
These things are futile yet effective. With poetry we attempt to swallow what has no form, to express what is certain, yet not there, and we manage to do this by describing all things surrounding the unimaginable “unknown”. We illustrate an elaborate silhouette of beauty so that it can be understood, even if only in the vaguest of ways.
What makes something subjective is that it is perceived it into being. The nature of our being is subjective, even our conception of what the objective is. If we look at a chair, we can claim that it is objectively a chair, but this is not true. We perceive the chair into being, we label it a chair. Objectively, things simply “are”. The chair “is”, it exists, as all things do, and no other quality or quantity can be attributed to anything, at least in the simplest, objective sense.
Does two plus two equal four objectively? I am conceiving the idea or receiving it from outside of myself. It exists in my mind, which encompasses my scope of knowledge and being, therefore it is subjective. No conscious being is beyond the subjective.
I sat on a couch muttering cynical nonsense at a party where no one was listening. Beer pong. People of lesser value. Trash. I ended up getting drunk and reading my entire journal to some really drunk girl who reminded me of some high school crush. She said I was deep.
I am drifting into fiction.
I shuffled a bit before shoving my hands into my shrunken pockets. I let myself relax so I could analyze how comfortable it feels. I feel my stomach bulging a little bit, but I reassured myself that it only felt like it was bulging because I had just eaten. I removed my hands from my pockets and let them find something beyond myself to preoccupy themselves with: the sleeves of my sweater, I pulled them up because the room was too warm.
A person ahead of me stepped forward. I readily stumbled forward a bit, eager to pry my thoughts from anxiety to mindless work. A short lived release.
Life has become a torment so meaningless and tired. No matter where I am, I never feel that I am there. I feel no pain in the traditional sense, only a bizarre awareness of my exhaustion. No amount of sleep or number of dreams has been able to set me free.
Every time I poop, it’s like a little scary nocturnal creature from the rainforest is crawling from my anus. With long fingers and eyes that bulge like glazed clementines, it scurries through the wall and into the gas furnace to feed on the fire and fumes.
My hatred is infinite. You cannot escape. It has soaked itself into the fabric of space and time. It turns the earth, it lifts the waves. A force of physics, it has manifested itself as the most perturbing splinter.
How on earth had I stumbled into that line? I saw a friend in the corner of my eye, a familiar experience. Looking back, its as if I monotonously purged my life for every ounce of anxiety and tried to string it together beautifully. I was in a line, I remember now, a line of thought, and as my friend placed her hand near mine to greet, but not touch at all, I imagined that the experiences before me were not mine at all, but those of some other character. I’m too old fashioned, I had decided, I belong in my favorite Kafka novel, I need bizarre dialogue to fuel me forward in this line.
I can barely recall the details of the people. How writers could have their protagonists recite the world and all its faces still eludes me. How do they remember? When do they find the time to write?
In my apartment, it is always night. The lights are on with their potent and infectious yellow, but the light only strengthens the awful idea that all other places have been taken by the night. That person’s face—from the line, a rather squirrely looking girl, echoes a bit in my eyes. She’s not significant, I do not work to earn her smile or her affection, nor does her smile inspire a single thought in me. Its difficult to identify what my life consisted of, which speaks or possibly does not at all. This is because my life does not support a process, it has no interaction or dynamics. The objects in my room are simply resting on the surfaces of the floor, the bed, the table. They have no choice but to endure their predisposed and static destinies of resting at the bottom of my thoughts, not so much of a sea, for the thoughts themselves share the same disposition as my material filth. I am resting at the very bottom. I am glued to the surface, waiting and wallowing in the swamp of lethargy. But what is in that swamp? How can I express what takes place? What faces float by, what colors do I see, what bubbles startle me from the unseen floor?
“A what?”
“Well, its like a carnival of sorts, like a festival.”
“A festival?”
“Also maybe more of a carnival…”
She was inviting me along to some event.
What again, did life consist of?
I wake up in the morning amidst a desert, where the sand is somehow cold to the touch. My sheets are beige and the thicker blanket always falls from the bed. From the moment I awaken, I am caught by a dilemma: my thoughts, neither clever or original, drone on. In a way I wish to escape them, to evade myself in sleep, or become alone and away, even from myself, in a network of tunnels in the mountains. My voice would not make a sound. Send a wind my way. I like to whisper on my way to work.
At times I think that no one cares for me. Only I care for me. I want to make people smile. I want people to smile because it is my power to make them. Do not smile on behalf of any other.
I recall watching the snow fall as I do now, but maybe my mind was a bit brighter. I’d be writing a poem, something peaceful that would lend my life a cinematic quality.
The protagonist attends a seminar. Guest speakers. Man with mustache crawling across his face. A giddy women who has been speaking for eons. How did I get here? How long has she been the overlord of my life? The mistress of confusion. I’ve lost the capacity to write fiction. I can only write the sincere, and then present it as imaginary.
He had inadvertently readied himself for failure in life. He knew too much, perhaps. He knew his ending before he had lived.
I’m sitting on a cold red bench. The sun in winter makes the world look confused, like a dream.
The rays wander in a labyrinth as they find me
but I cannot retrace their voyage back
to their home, the source of joy cannot be
And as the sun changes the shadows
and reflections, I forget how
it ever found me
there on that bench.
Where do the rays travel?
The universe is my pillow
paper door
I wish to peel away every thought
every layer of human emotion
Clementine core, a sweet and molten bottom of every pit
and my fingers worn to blood without nails,
I dig because I cannot fly
I see colors and faces in the carpet. In this used napkin, a friendly acquaintance laughs above, below it a red plate. Many friends conversing. I see the patterns, those lights and darks housing hidden worlds, tall structures of a microscopic civilization. Crumbs surround the paper metropolis, laying siege in a hostile wave. Engines of death in a dimension of fiction. I asked a girl in my dream with a pastry for a head if she would like a paper hat.
People wonder why I get so sad. I became sad as a child, because I was beside myself, a part of me was left some place else.
I am from another world. Perhaps I’m not, maybe the other world is from me.
But it came to me, I swear it did. The doorway came to me. It wasn’t just a single entrance or a definitive portal, it was everywhere. I’d stumble into it when it wanted me. A walk in the woods, but then the trees began swaying more than a bit. The sky has different colors then, and everywhere I look, I witness a smile, oh yes, I witness it because something as odd as this cannot be seen and remembered in a way that isn’t traumatic.
These days I get sad because I used to go on telling myself that the other world still welcomed me into its halls and landscapes. But I know that it has left me. I have an artificial version, a darker one only of memories. I hardly dream any more, and when I do, I Do not go to that place, I wander in a fake version of my boring reality. I don’t want to explain those normal dreams. I’m in a building, there are friends in the building. The situation is always bizarre. A tunnel that I explore, maybe a maze.
People love fairy tales as children. Peter pan, come to me. Crack open the windows. Kidnap me. Take me by force into the unknown. Shove me in the devil’s cupboard. Show me the way to narnia. Can you tell me how to get to sesame street? Those lucky children live in a dream, but when do they awaken? I come to worship at the inebriated temple.