Cynical Notes From Yesterday and the Day Before

Within the walls of brick and time I wait for the day to end. I wait among the other lost and hopeless souls who are also waiting. We are all just waiting for something to happen. A friend once said, If you want something to happen, you have to make something happen. A very smart friend indeed, who could conjure a series of impeccable sentences with a high dosage of sense and intelligence. But here I am alone and stare into the faces of my foreign peers, without a friend.

Lining the walls are vast collections of books that no one reads except for me. I collect a good amount, locate a chair in the back corner of the library under the large window above the old hardwood shelve. Dust coats the books. I count them when I sit. Seven books. When I get bored with one I switch to another. Near me sits a girl with red hair and red bangs that trim her catlike eyebrows. She smokes a cigarette even though she is not supposed to be. In front of her on the long table she has two books in front of her. They are not library books because they lack the plastic sticker on the spine. So she does read in her own free will. Could it be possible that her and I could share a hearty conversation of literature and art and cinema? She catches me looking at her and I look back into the inked pages of Kerouac. Her smoke wafts over to me.

The pine tartness hangs in the air, stings any nostrils in the vicinity. Footsteps echo off the walls of books. A thousand souls around me, their voices stirring the energy like a tornado.

There is always the stirring of energy everywhere you go. The communicable energy that attracts us all like magnets. Just stop and look at everything move. Everything is alive if you just let it be.

The flowers can whisper poems to you as you breathe in their perfume. Riddles that taste rosy sweet, almost sour. The elements of life are laced in the air,  the trees talk as well. The trees, though stoic during the sun, chatter all night in the wind and watch the moon.

The moon has always been here yet we take it for a stranger on the road. A random person we see but will never get to know. A distant decaying boat in the middle of the endless black ocean that sails the water alone. Lost, but in love with the ocean above, the floating diamonds sparkle and keep me warm.

Can't I get lost and just enjoy it? Savor a moment in time when I am stuck under the stars, tossed randomly onto the face of the world, unmapped, untraced. Cant I bound the days together with adventure and wonder? new flowers bloom everyday, a new fruit tasted, new ground mapped under my feet. Cant I drop everything and leave? Cant I live freely and sleep and dream without having to pay for it? When can I lay down and close my eyes and truly see the galaxy of my mind? When will the universe spit out the person I am to love or hate? Or is space just a void where our dreams blossom. A memory strikes such pain knowing that it is gone and only exists in nonexistence inside the locked vault of the mind. Why does the air grow thick when I shut my eye lids? Is the fog here to suffocate us? The compass is broken, the glass shattered and the needle bent, and the sky darkens and the fog swells. I am lost and I do not enjoy it.

I am awake inside of my mind but am outside of my body. I'm am a black hole, channeling energy through my vast endless void. I am slowly falling back wards, back into myself. I wake and it was all to fake to be real. But it was real.

I realize I have become all to lucid with my life. I noticed things that people never even bother to notice. I wasn't looking at the world from the perspective of a citizen, but from the perspective of a brief and temporary person. There was a thought I always had said. Our lives are all but brief bursts of flame under a sky that has no beginning or end or care. With this lucidity I have become impatient. I have grown too aware that things are just how they are, s****y or good. Miserable or ecstatic. The rain still falls.  From the library I watch the rain fall outside the window. Here I am. Why?

The books are the answer to everything. I read from my own books. I neglect everything and everybody and consume the books silently. The ancient perfume of the pages is the aroma of immortals. I believe in ghosts as much as I believe in the dead writers whom I consider best friends. They are all dead but they all could not have ever been as alive and lucid as they are to me now. I turn the pages.

The girl is always there. She sits and reads and smokes. Every so often she will yawn and her eyes will water and redden. Next to her books sits an ashtray painted with floral design. At least she has the decency to dispose the ashy remains of her habit.

The clock is always after me. I try to ignore it, and then it always sends me laughing away some day. The clock only becomes a good person when I am asleep.

The professors are careless and pitiless and ignorant. I try to avoid them as much as possible. It makes me sick to even write about them, so I will not.

Lost and still alive. Waiting. How can I conjure a life worth living? Is it all size based? My wallet is thin and my body smaller and my ego nonexistent. The characteristics of my soul could not bleed out through my shell. I am a different person inside. My shell is weak and fragile, but I feel like I have a larger sized soul that screams inside.  I feel like the trillions of clock ticks weighed out into bodily proportions and calculated for no reason at all in classrooms. Tested by the peers rather than the professors. The clock stares me down. I stare at everyone else behind the windows of my head and all they see is this ordinary plain colorless cheap house.

Am I ever going to regret doing the thing I did in the past? Or was it the things I didn't do. There is always tomorrow, says the bird who sings songs every morning. F**k you bird, I am trying to sleep away my life.

Dreams can be horrifyingly nostalgic, and not at all in a sentimental eye. In class I recall a dream I had. It was an argument superimposed with a tale of horror, involving the ghost of my last love. It is amazing how when you are asleep, both hemispheres of the brain can play two different tunes. 

The clocks tick for no reason at all. Its just some stupid machine to tell us we're still here.

Television has become an evil spirit. Every time it is on I have to leave the room to get away from it.

The pen is a thing one must always have. I carry a notebook and pen with me everywhere. Even if I were to become homeless or lost in the forest or stranded on an island, I would have no fear at all, as long as I had the pen to bleed out of.

All I do is erase sentences never spoke. Words never considered. The girl with the red bangs is reading Salinger.  He is good, but he is too eccentric. He got it right with Catcher in the Rye, but everything else was a little too colorful for my taste. She was reading Nine Stories. I though about telling her to read Bukowski but I think she would get insulted or offended. I don't even ask, too afraid of how stupid I will look when I say it. Her face staring at mine twisting and turning to form some meaningless jumble of noises to arouse her to do the same thing. It was absolutely an overplayed game these days..  When all we are really here to do is to shove our pissers at each other like animals and hope that we can find food. That's all we are really supposed to do. My outlook on things really bothers me sometimes but I have to admit that I am correct in my theory.

I may be cynical because I lack sympathy and empathy.

I am apathy. I laugh at the fact in my head, but not a trace of the thought spreads my lips into smile. Why should I show my teeth? They are wine stained and flawed in structure. But I could care less. I notice all the flaws I have naturally collected, but they do not register because of my drugged state of apathy.

The mirror is a terrible thing to have in your house. Mirrors riddle the walls of the house I live in, and they changed all of us. It turned us all into these depressed apathetic a******s because it showed us exactly that every time we walked past one. .

I feel I am always on the verge of something. But I'm too aloof to realize what it is. I am too busy reading, being someone else for the hour. Gripping the pages and tasting the ink always gave me wondrous ideas - even in the midst of reading. Sometimes a sentence will seed a thought in my brain and it will grow as I continue to read the book, and oblivious, will bloom into exotic fruit. This fruit, however, is tasteless, and I have to backtrack and read everything over again.

I write for a reason but I don't exactly know why just yet. I guess my goal is to create someone so completely shattered that if you try to even put the pieces back together you would slit your fingers.

Maybe I don't want to be stuck within the glands of society. This generation is an unfortunate one. Everyone is ignorant. They think this is THE generation, that this is the future, that this is it. Everything has turned out so wrong it feels. Everything is made for simplicity but in reality everything is more complicated. I was born on the verge of the future, born in one era where there was no future, and then found myself on the other side, where today is and tomorrow is. I watched this generation grow into the maggot infested t**d that it is.

There is also the green element of earth that sprouts and is sold and bought and consumed to live. If you don't do as society says then you are not allowed to live and to eat.

We are all eating to live in more pain and we drown it out with food and sex and wine and sleep and Coca Cola and soap operas and pulp novels and pop music and kissing and card playing and marijuana and cocaine and tobacco and Valium and food.

Writing is just hollowing out the brain to make room for more thoughts to grow and eventually s**t out.

I write messages on dollar bills, because you know somebody is going to read it one day. A lot of people actually, and the thought thrills me. Illegal activities are always enjoyable. In the library I was doing this very thing, writing either the date or my name or a single random word. Hocus. Phallic. Deface. Maybe I will write my name. Instead I write F**k You, Sir. I leave it at that and go buy a soda.

You bump into people you once knew a long time ago. You notice that the shell is the same, but sometimes they completely change inside. Sometimes they are a newer healthier person, sometimes they degenerate themselves. Time renders some dead and others immortal. 

You may see someone from afar and judge them before they even speak to you. I had judged this person without even knowing who she was. She always wore sun glasses, as if to avoid everyone yet simultaneously place herself before us with invisible eyes. She disgusted me. Her natural facial expression said, F**k You. But one day she spoke to me, and she took off her glasses. I saw into her soul and she saw into mine and dropped bombs on my heart. I could have bled out and still I would be lost in those eyes.

I have always known that before I was born I was a soul floating around the void for a long time, bodiless, waiting. It has been a long time since I have known a body, the life. I am aware that I am lost, confused and scared. Time has grown thicker and the earth much heavier since my previous existence. The world is loud now, and rude. Some people may realize it, but there is nothing they can do about it, because most people are only concerned with themselves.

I must have received the pessimism gene from my father. The only way to sedate it is to write. I slit my wrists and let the ink run out. The hopelessness goes with it. I allow the hot sleep to swallow me, and I dream softly in the still dark, the bottomless lake. I have to piss but I do not wake. Sleep weighs on top of me and my bladder stretches. My feet fall off the bed and guide me to the bathroom. The toilet is still there in the dark.  The toilet doesn't sleep, it is always hungry. I drain myself and stand in front of the mirror. The small night light spills light onto my faceless skull. The mirror is as clear as water. I touch the glass and it ripples like a lake surface. I stick my arm through. It is cooler on the other side. I fall into the lake. But it is not water. It is ink.

Waking up from sleep is like being born again. And then you are slapped in the face by consciousness and thrust out into the world. Education awaits my arrival even though I am already sick of it, one week into it. The new college, located in the downtown district. I write for the school newspaper, having written my first article to find that I am not good at writing at stuff that I give no s***s about. But at the very least, I get to write. I get to say something and distribute it about the campus. I like the idea of it, but it is the second decade in the twenty-first century, the mere beginning of the future; nobody reads anymore. Everyone is consumed with technology and have applied it to their lives like one would do with a new born baby.

I have found a girl who I can deeply relate to. I have never once seen a phone in her hands during class. I think I am in love with her. Geography has now become my favorite subject because of the French girl. The class didn't seem too appealing at first. I had switched into the class on a whim because of a friends persistence. I would never have added the class if it wasn't for her. She dropped out the very next day, already frustrated with the struggle of trying to do an assignment on the class computers. I was struggling with complying with retarded technology, cursing it under my breath. I guess my disconcerted attitude interfered with her and she got it up in her mind that school wasn't for her. For the first week I was alone. 

I was considering dropping the class and adding the same one right after this one ended. There was a three hour gap in my schedule, a long lapse in between first and second period. I asked the teacher about switching classes the next week. She said that it was possible that there were some empty chairs. As I was talking to the teacher, a gorgeous blonde girl walked into the room, a foreign face made of glass and eyes of ice, and sat in the chair next to where I had set my school bag. I tried to end the conversation with the teacher. I told her I would think about switching. I sat next the girl. Rich blonde hair and dark eyes. She definitely seemed foreign. Later I was to find out that she is French, after the students were to one by one introduce themselves and relate a fact about ourselves that no one could ever guess (I said I could ride a bike and play the guitar simultaneously). After me was the girl. She introduced herself as Mara Baudelaire. The name caught me, I was hooked like a fish. Her personal fact: she is French. I was reeled in...

I followed the French girl to the library after class today. Alone, friendless and insane, I watched her disappear into the room with books. I followed twenty feet behind her. The windows in the library are high and spill bucketfuls of light into the room. The aroma of time fills my nostrils as I enter the main hall. There are tables full of people and I discreetly scan my eyes around the room, looking for the Mediterranean blonde, but I cannot find her. I walk to the nearest book shelf and grab Bukowski's Ham on Rye. Such a great novel, I almost forget about my current objective. I set the book back on the shelf and scan the room. Mara Baudelaire has disappeared. I leave and bump into Roland Major. We make plans to meet after class...

Roland has with him a joint that he has discreetly placed above his ear. I follow him to see it burn. Roland has eyes that can singe your soul, and he has fingers singed by ash. Roland's soul has been inflamed in pain, like mine, and he douses it with cannabis. He asks me how my class was. I think of the French girl, I think of her diamond hair. I tell him it was good. He nods aloof and sticks the joint in between his lips. He asks me if I have a lighter. I tell him no. He says he has one anyways, just wanted to know if I had one. We come to a less congested area of the campus, but there are still people around. Roland doesn't care. Then the smoke wafts.

I am again inside the walls of brick and time, waiting. The class is long and expansive and the clock is far away. I close my eyes and the face of the wingless angel resonates the void of  manual blindness. A tear swells behind the keys of my typewriter, or is it just my eyes? The tear seeps out, and I pry open my eyes, only to watch the droplet of ink fall twenty thousand feet and splatter upon the canvas of my dreams. I pick up the pencil and write.

The clock has made its last revolution. It is time to leave. 

Under the eye of the galaxy that never blinks, I struggle to locate my car. The persistence of Roland's illegal cigarette has rendered me lost and confused, but I savor the brief moment where I am labeled as such. The sun is evil and wants me to succumb. Stains of sweat interior, now stick to my cloth exterior. I feel like passing out.. I am starving.. I am lost.. I am in love.. The sun doesn't look away. I raise my fist and curse at it. The parking lot is a frenzy of souls trying to leave this desolate place of priced education. We are all here to better ourselves. Why is it that every time I leave I feel like I have forgotten something? I feel like I left a piece of my  charisma in the toilet.  I find my truck. It's white coat of snow mirrors the sun. It is in the same place where I had left it this morning. Of course it is. I open the door and like opening the hatch to a conveyer oven I am baked, baked even more than I already am, and the heat makes my hair recede, my bowels stir, my armpits have thoughts of Niagara Falls. This breath of the sun that has been growing thicker all day finally hisses at me. I get in the truck. The steering wheel is a tangible wheel of Satan. I ignite the flame of the engine and leave. I make it only to the first traffic light before I remove all of my clothes.

Who am I talking to? Who am I writing for? Is it you? Or is it for me?

At home I sleep off the weariness and wake in the late evening. Today's events are all but just a dream lost in a maze under a sky of gray haze.  It rains again; odd for September weather. The heat swells in a gross congestion, and the rain falls, warm like tears. I sigh for no reason. 

Sometimes it helps to just scream.

As everyone sleeps I go outside to be coated with Lunar love. It is the best kind of love. It is more than love. It is an energy, a wave of essentials and valuables that can only be obtained in the midst of the night. Mara Baudelaire enters my mind. I spot her face on the moon. I can hear her whisper to me. I whisper back, I tell her to come to me. She flaps her graceful wings and I can see the cloud of her departure swell upon the night sky. She appears before me, covered in moon-dust. She says something to me in French and smiles. It wasn't a lie. Her lips suddenly are upon mine like a lioness upon a zebra. She draws blood and nourishes off of the sugar laced tongue, tangled in time. She breaks the kiss and floats out into the street. I stand and follow her with my measly feet. She is already far away, the show has already started. I gaze at her from afar and she dances in the street. The moon is her spotlight. It begins to rain. She doesn't stop dancing. 

The sunset is like a final sigh of the day, the clouds swell in a bruise, and then all at once it is gone. Things I plan to do never get done, dreams I have never come true. Things I want to say to random passerby's I never say. I followed Marie Baudelaire after class earlier this day. She gave me my pencil back which I had let her borrow the previous day, and I held onto it like a trophy, like a sentimental stick of nothing and yet everything. I rubbed the pencil and smelled it and thought about licking it, but no, I am not that f*****g crazy. All the while I am walking behind her I hold the pencil in my hand, cradling it like a fragile jewel. I know in my mind that I will never grasp the power to say her name aloud. Five feet behind her, I am screaming in my mind, commanding myself to just say her name, to say her name, say her name aloud, say it right now. But I can't bring myself to do it. I am a foot behind her, I can smell her hair. I tap her on the elbow with her pencil. She turns and smiles, confused yet curious.

“Did my pencil come in handy?”

She lets out a repressed giggle and says in her melodious accent, “Yes, it saved my life.”

And that was all it took.

My heart has a surplus of love; it swells with blood pumped only for her. The pain it creates is insurmountable, but it is tolerable, because it is pain I must withstand if I want to keep her inside. The pain could easily be my heart growing, stretching to accommodate this horrible and wonderful thing I feel. It is intangible and it drives me f*****g crazy. I have spent only two school days now with her, trading words and laughs, and when I am not with her in the dark, dreamy shadows of my home, I feel tectonics plates in my mind clash and produce mountains of want and need. Je suis folle de toi.

Sometimes it helps to scream.

In the mirror stands a person I don't know. It is a foreigner, a hooligan, an ugly, flawed character, screaming. The mirror is a devil, it brings out the devil within, it changes us. I don't know who I am, or who I am trying to be. I know that the person in the mirror is just as lonely as I am, has the same problems and needs. I know that if I were the person in the mirror it would be so simple to shatter myself. But I am on the other side. I try to carry a conversation with this person in the reflection, but he just walks away.

The best part of the day is dawn. It is a rebirth, a new chance at  succeeding in anything. The town is new, it is not the dead corpse I see it as during the day. The town is fresh, it is clean. There is dew on the grass and there are birds hiding in the trees waiting for the sun to rise and bring the worms to the surface. The sun waits behind the Sierra mountains like an actor behind a curtain. The show will begin, that is always sure, but it is how the show ends that matters. I wait outside in the misty air leftover by the tranquil moon, eating an apple, filling my emptiness with something green. The grass is green, the trees are green, my shirt is green. The sun shatters the sky. It is time to go.

My typewriter is a close friend. It is always there when I have no one to talk to. It lets me say whatever the f**k I want. For me I need the greens to survive. The typewriter needs the deep black blues to consume and spit out. It swallows my thoughts and prints them perfectly upon a fragile canvas. It is the ultimate invention. Computers have nothing on the typewriter. Computers f**k up constantly and consistently. The illnesses and diseases a computer may contract are intangible, and sometimes irreparable. A typewriter gets jammed, or its ribbon runs dry. All you need to do is use your eyes and your fingers to fix it.

Sometimes I try to shine my soul out through my eyes when I am talking to Mara Baudelaire. When I am with her and she is in the middle of a sentence I find myself in a dream state. Euphoric thoughts of wonder and awe and astounding confusion clash like hurricane waves behind my eyes. I try to channel this power that she is giving me through my pupils and through hers and into her head, ultimately caressing her soul. But can't I give these thoughts to her as a mere whisper? Is it possible to tell her how I feel without forming these meaningless words before her? Can't I just look at her and smile and spill my love onto her heart? A touch could be a post script, a kiss can be a whole new letter to write. I have enough ink for a million letters.

It is possible that all of this madness that she is causing me may ultimately be for nothing. I could end up with someone else and she would be transformed into nothing but a memory and imprisoned in my dreams. The future is never a sure thing. The only thing that is real is now. The only thing that matters is right now. It is funny, because right now is the future. Even as I am typing this out, time has already progressed further and right now isn't even current. It is dead, in the past, lost in time and memory. That is why one must seize the day, grab it with your invisible fist and take control. Open your mouth and scream.

Mara Baudelaire has swallowed me.

Under a spell, transfixed on her golden hair and her iridescent lashes, I fall off of the cliff and into her grip. She is my everything and I have only known her for a week. She is the only thing in my life that I care about; the only thing I want and look forward to. I feel like I have known her for centuries. She is mine and all mine and nothing but mine and I am all hers. She can do with me as she wants and I will be satisfied. She can push me off of a cliff onto a valley of glass and fire and s**t and I will smile in serene ecstasy because she has touched me. I want to kiss her voice and lick her breath, I want to swallow her words and bury myself in her hair. I want to read her mind like a novel and hope that I am a main character. I can hope and pray that she will truly be mine someday. The desperation of my need for her is the most frustrating explosion to ever disrupt my chemical processes. 

In the morning I awake still asleep and fall back into dreams that stain my pillows. I turn and find the position I awoke in and returned to the land of sleep film. Dreams of swimming in lakes that don't exist and simultaneously having an argument with my sister and escaping a horde of zombies. I believe if I watched television as much as the average person does my dreams would contain much more violence and terrible humor. Commercials and advertisements might pop up as well. But I cannot bring myself to subject myself to television. There is only one use for it: to do nothing. If you want to do nothing, watch television. If you want to do nothing, stare blankly at nothing. Television is all about money. Everything is about money. It is sick, but I cannot blame people for their greed, as nasty as it is. We all need money to get by. And here people are sitting on their a*s watching television. Wasting time, wasting money. It amazes me that people pay for television, when one could just go to the library and rent a book for free and get a better story. That is my version of doing nothing: reading. It gives me script for my dreams, better characters, better plots that make no sense at all. But that is the fun in dreaming, letting it just happen. Sometimes I dream of reading. Sometimes reading frequently and consistently gets my brain activity dosed with words and I will fall asleep with sentences forming along a ceaseless line. In the dream I won't even realize that I am not actually reading, and become jealous that I never thought of writing that, even though it is actually a product of my own mind. Curious.

On the way to school I drove through the intersection nearest my home to find that there was a terrible car accident by the high school I went to. I saw faculty from the school surrounding the eradicated car and crowds of people and a startled girl sitting in the grass. An ambulance blocked the scene, and though I tried to see something, could not. I continued through the intersection slowly, driving around the debris and shattered glass. Like jewels. Later I was to find out that someone was killed, a young man only three or four years older than me. It was a terrible and tragic thing to learn that someone was killed not even a mile away from where I lived. It made me realize how powerfully dangerous automobiles are. Driving, I concluded that the accident was most possibly caused by texting while driving. Why do people insist on being so stupid? Of course you will pay the price if you insist on replying a f*****g smiley face while behind the wheel. It doesn't make any sense to me. And I see people do it all the time. It makes me mad. Not even ten minutes later, as I was driving down the road, the oncoming car was curving over into my lane, curving, turning, until it was almost completely in front of me, and at the last moment, shot the car back into its own lane. I shoved in on the horn, infuriated. F*****g mother f*****g people and their mother f*****g cell phones. I looked in the rear view mirror to see the car, praying they would crash into a telephone pole. All I saw instead was the driver directly behind me laughing.

It is odd how we let fear get the best of us. My fear is making a fool of myself. I also fear I am too bashful. I need to stop that, I need to change my attitude about things. I'm beginning to need all that I can I have. I'm succeeding to speak like I'm f*****g mad. Looking at the autumn shade in my minds eye, I can feel the change near. It is like an omen in the air, and we all have no choice but to breathe it in. But in the end we all exhale. I'm f*****g mad I'm f*****g mad.

The affect of music on me is quite obvious. Music bleeds out of me unconsciously. There is always a song playing, a rhythm beating. My fingers snapping, my throat humming, my  feet tapping. And when I finally get my hands on an instrument I can finally speak. When I want to go, I can dream, I can strum and I can fly and I can scream at the clouds below.  Soon, I will combine music with my words, melody along with prose. I hope to succeed.

Melody is a magic trick of the universe. It is like a type of mathematical equation, but more relative to the soul than numbers are. Sometimes I think to myself how tragic it would be if I were to lose my fingers. I would never be able to play guitar. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if the universe took away my fingers, and I will play with only two or three fingers.  I find that I would still be a genius only using my thumb.

The radio is a terrible thing nowadays. It screams at me with terrible music and advertisements. Rarely will there be a song tolerable of my ears. That is why I bring CD's along with me. At school I will cruise the parking lot like an ultimate a*****e with my music blaring out the rolled down windows. Somebody needs to know that there is better music out there. 

The parking lot is completely full like it always is and I am late to Geography. I will lose time with Mara Baudelaire. The parking at the school is absolutely retarded and backwards and it takes an eternity to get out once you've gotten in. But for some miracle I get out of the parking lot and onto the road, hoping to find a park on the other side of the school on the street. I double back and am suddenly halted by an oncoming train. I sigh and put the car in park. Its an endless snake, it roars as it slithers down the track that runs through the school campus. 

I park on the street in a perfect spot under a tree. The curb was not red, so I took a chance. The entrance to the back of the school was twelve feet across the road. I liked coming in from this side, because there are no people around. And the trees. The shade is thick the sun can't spot you. I walk into the school. 

Almost immediately I bump into Roland. He has a book in his hand and he's smoking a joint. He greets me and sticks the joint in the grip of my lips and shakes my hand. 

“Whats up, Roland?”

He smiles and takes off his sunglasses in the shade. His eyes are dark yet colorful. 

“Nothing much, man. Just got outta class. F*****g boring.”

I hand him the spliff and he puffs at it. 

“What class was it?”

“Geography.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I tell him about my geography class. I tell him about Mara Baudelaire.

“At least you got something to look forward to.”

“True,” I say. “She is on my mind all the time. I have class right now, so I get to see her today.”

“Cool, here, take this.” He reveals another joint from his pocket and hands it to me. It seems that Roland always has a joint on him.

“What the f**k, I don't want this.”

“Just take it.”

“I can't take it, it'll smell, man.”

“No, trust me, it wont smell. Just put it in your bag.” He unzips a pocket and drops it in. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Look, I gotta go. I'll see you later.”

“Bye.”

I am twenty minutes late to class. I open the door and immediately she looks at me. She is absolutely impeccable. She smiles at me. She is glad to see me! I can't believe it! The other day we talked for an hour. We fell into each other so easily, like two puzzle pieces aligning.  I know she only perceives me as a friend when I so desperately want her to love me. 

The class goes by quick in her presence. We exit together.

Too many words were traded. It is impossible to report specifics. All I can say is that I love her. I want to wrap my arms around her and die. I want to stare into her eyes for an eternity. I want to breathe in the aroma of her hair. I want to kiss her skin. I want to wrap myself in her warmth. I want to write about her, and only her. I wish she could see me the way I see her. But what if she does? 

I have not typed anything on this fictional account of  my           deteriorating   sanity  .    .

in a very long time.

There fore,  there no longer exists a life in the words.      

I must return to the words . . 

At home on my roof I relax in a chair with a book and Roland's marijuana cigarette. As I puff on the joint, miraculous thoughts bloom behind my dancing eyes, wonders and dreams and chocolate covered lies.

There is proof that everything is alive, even if it does not appear to be. One may look at a tree and just see a tree, and not even think twice about its existence, its life and its green soul that stretches to the sun. 

Animals, even f*****g ants, have souls, as minute as they may be. Plants have souls, dreams, memories. Even this cigarette of plush cannabis, has a soul. I suck the flame into the paper shell, and it burns it to ash as I breathe in its smoke and coat my body in its organic soul. 

O, to think of all the feet that have trotted along the soil of the Earth.

Author's Note

Notes

Reviews

[Lea Walker]

Very interesting, it messes with my emotions though.

[Alan B.]

Nice stream of consciousness type writing here man. I like how you projected your psyche onto the library and society and time. Interesting as always.

[Farm Donkey]

Hopefully desolate. An interesting read and well paced given the skilfully created bleakness of the piece.

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks for reading I really appreciate it!

[The Twin Arenas]

this was f*****g weird to read. I'm sure you realize this.

of all the writers on this site, I'd like most to ask you what you're f****n' deal is. something I've always liked about writing is when the author takes on a life of their own, like when they almost become a character out of what they're writing, but what I think I like best about that is never being sure about it. Like, you have no real idea if it's "writing" or if it's, like, happening. Do you know what I mean? I guess that's what all great writers do, in some form or another, unless they're a genre writer. Ah, f**k, who knows what I'm talking about.

The parts about you and Roland smoking joints were great. There was so much here. This was so long. And it was like, Roland, loathing, roland, love, loathing, roland. It was all written, though. Like, you wrote it. It wasn't like a "diary" entry or something.

You have a f*****g weird style. It's so close to puke (not puke), which makes it highly readable.

I also really like what the f**k you were saying about the moon.

[Chadvonswan]

First, thanks for reading this prolonged bullshit, and for writing about it at that. I pulled some aspects from my life right now and tried to paint this colorful illusion (dream?) laced with love and drugs and hate and annoyance and just all the random bullshit that goes through minds on a day to day basis, hence the notes title. But then again there is the dialogue. F**k idk. Just some words.

[The Twin Arenas]

"tried to paint" you're a good painter.

[The Twin Arenas]

writer, like.

[The Twin Arenas]

the title is great. I'm sure the rest is, too. I just have to smoke a cigarette then I'm gonna read this.

[The Twin Arenas]

the title is great.

[Crusty Pizza Stain]

i just have to smoke some meth, and then i will read this

[The Twin Arenas]

I'll read this. Holy s**t.

[Chadvonswan]

Hahah please do man. (:

[ZackOfBridge]

For a lot of these I felt they weren't cynical but extravagantly written truths. My favorite, "Everything is alive if you just let it be." Also, the change at the end was unexpected, but worked. Diggin your wordwork as always.

[ZackOfBridge]

I feel ja man