Especially of clips never shown
But it’s time to divest of myself some of my old writings that didn’t make the cut of becoming standalone posts but did make the cut of being good enough to be in a Frankenstein’s monster-like post (there’s a metaphor in here somewhere, maybe even two if you look closely enough / if I wasn’t lazy enough / if I just make up things and pretend and you do, too).
So, in here is over 4,500 words and 18 posts in what I’ve dubbed “Emo Passages”, “(Less) Emo Passages”, “Poems”, “Quotes”, and “Just for Fun”. Cause what is this for if not for fun? Well, besides the crippling depression, of course. The good ol’ crippling depression. But fun! Also fun. (And crippling depression.)
Emo Passages:
There’s something missing here.
It’s not unusual for me to feel this absence. I’m quite acquainted with it. I’m experienced in attempting to fill it, a hole that sinks deeper over time. The more I try to fill it, the bigger it gets. The more I fill, the more I fall. Am I just digging myself farther down?
I see the light echo against the pool tiles, dancing in the water, just before the city skyline. I look up to remind myself to live in the moment. I’m always making plans for myself. I’d call them dreams because they don’t often come true, but my ability to dream anymore is diminished and is my ability to be creative. Maybe that’s a good thing, though: less disappointment, if they’re plans simply written and forgotten than dreams and hopes and goals tried for but not gotten.
It’s cold. I can’t tell whether I like this breeze. I’m alone up here, but that’d be true even if it was crowded. It’s good bet that I’m alone at almost any time. True enough it could become a maxim or a theorem or another term I’ve long since forgotten. Perhaps I’ll follow suit in fate.
***
Five years ago; I guess nothing has changed.
Five years ago, to the same month, probably to the same week, and maybe even to the same day.
I drove to the beach at three in the morning. I drove 45 minutes to sit in the sand, to think, to ponder, to be alone with the water, hearing the waves come in and go out, crashing in the pitch-black dead of night, darkness and smallness and loneliness and emptiness in every direction.
The next day I texted my friend, mentioning my excursion. He rightfully said, “Woah man, what is up? Is everything fine?” The question was clearly rhetorical because obviously, for the question to be asked, the answer was already known. Everything was not fine.
What I was going through then
What I’m going through now
The funniest part of the incident was the drive home. While sitting in the sand, I must have picked up a passenger because when I was just about to get onto the interstate, I noticed a cockroach crawling across my dash. As any sane, rational person would do – “sane” and “rational” doing a lot of lifting here – I freaked out, but my instincts took over, and I safely pulled into a neighborhood road to swiftly remove the roach from my car. I had spent a portion of the night earlier (and many nights prior) thinking that I might be coming to the end of the road in the very near future. But here I was, letting my instincts take over, to ensure nothing bad happened to my car, myself, or others. Here I was, acting in the best interest to keep myself alive.
The question isn’t: five years from now, will I be saying, “Five years ago; I guess nothing has changed”? The question is: will my instincts be different?
***
Did you get what you wanted?
Was tomorrow better than today?
I did it. I moved. And I have to ask myself, “Did I get what I wanted?” because I know – or my ego would like to think – that the people I left behind are asking this exaction question, perhaps because I am, as aforementionedly (new word) stated, perhaps because my ego is too much to not believe that they’re still thinking about me – but I hope not. I’m still thinking about her, for example. And the others. But especially her. Maybe she’s reading this. Hopefully not. Hopefully nothing. Even in that situation, and in every situation, I find a way to make it about me. It’s my victim complex. I guess victim complex is the best description of what I’ve had, what I’ve known, what I’ve felt since I was maybe 5 and got in trouble for throwing a toy boat at my cousin in my parent’s pool and figuring out that if I hid underneath my bed and made it seem like I was really regretful and potentially not actually regretful but sorry and not sorry because I felt bad unless I could act that I felt bad but sorry that I got caught or I guess in trouble (and in so by doing this I would be ultimately resolved of my sins). Maybe. But I digress:
I guess I don’t digress. It’s funny the things you pick up on the older you get. A few years ago, when I was 23 years old, probably the third week of March 2015, I did a small amount of shrooms and went to a trance electronic music show at the local club – and finally figured out that trance is, yes, I’m saying this, decent / too many dashes – and remembered back to a little NASCAR race car toy I had as a kid. Or also the reason that I’m so OCD – again, too many dashes / which I should remove from my vocabulary because people do suffer from OCD and I am not one of those people and I do not mean to belittle their differently-abled challenges, just like how I’ve worked the “f” and “r” words out of my vocabulary over the years – is because of the one time I was talked to as a kid about not cleaning up my room and my toys. I’ve now used “toys” three times in this, or four times, depending on how you’re counting. If you’re reading this.
I guess I do digress. I have to ask myself if this is what I wanted. I need to know if tomorrow was better than today.
I haven’t been writing in a while
I have a friend who committed suicide
Quote about not being put on earth to work 40 hours per week
So,
Did you get what you wanted?
Was tomorrow better than today?
No, I did not get what I wanted. I have what I need, but who knows what that means. I have plans for the future, and that’s all there is to me. Unhappy, but completely understanding. Of the life that we lead, of the blood that we bleed, of the fact that these however many years are the total years of me.
I miss her, and I miss me. Whoever I ever was, whoever I believe, whoever I am today, not that the day is true or real. It’s just relative, so I guess I can’t be better tomorrow, anyway. Not right now, not today. Anyway:
This isn’t even good writing, but I just have to imagine [I guess I have to use “have” a lot; just like I’ve liked to have started using brackets instead of parentheses] that after few hours of sleep, lots of drinks, and a couple lines of shit blow as I write a couple lines of shit that blows, the writing wouldn’t be good. Couldn’t be good. Shouldn’t be good? Have I used that pattern before in one of my writings? Will I use it again after one of my future writings? I assume my point was going to be that time is relative. So tomorrow can’t be better today, but I sure as hell try in my mind to make tomorrow better than today, lying to myself that it will be so that I feel better about my current state, never asking why I continue to be this way. Or asking and knowing but doing nothing about it.
The other day I was on the phone with a friend who told me that I was good with words and should be a writer. Not that I publicize my writing, I guess she didn’t know that I publish my writing.
(Less) Emo Passages:
I left my credit card at the bar.
Where? It doesn’t matter. I’ll just call the member services number and order a new one.
When? Last night, maybe. I seem to remember having it during the day when I picked up coffee and a breakfast sandwich, in the afternoon, hungover, at the coffee and breakfast sandwich place across the street.
But honestly the days blend together. It could have been any day, any purchase, and any restaurant.
The people, too.
I didn’t make my bed this morning. I don’t know why. I always make it. It just didn’t feel truly necessary today.
I design a schedule for the afternoon. Something to keep me occupied until the evening, when I will need to design another schedule to bring me home to sleep.
Tomorrow I will do the same.
The cool air today, uncommon in this region but reasonable given the season, breaks up the year a little bit. Otherwise, it’s mostly warm.
I feel the wind brush against my face as I walk outside for another purchase, to greet the outdoors and the same people I’ve greeted my entire life with the hope that today they might greet me with something different.
I don’t know if I truly feel the wind, though. I don’t know if my mind is just imagining its brisk chilliness because it knows it should be there.
I’ve lost feeling, but my head makes up for it by telling me that this is what I should be experiencing.
Or I have all and total feeling, and so I try to numb myself and tell myself I don’t.
I’m rambling. These thoughts come and go but are with me at most times and I’m wondering when I will come and go with them.
***
It’s 10:15 in the morning, Eastern time. All of the clichés ring true. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Flowers growing. It paints a pretty picture, but it’s one I turn a blind eye to. My head is pounding like a drum. My body would scream dehydration if it had the energy, or I suppose the ability. I would like to be captured by my closest companion sleep, but to no avail I try. I would like to rise from this prison, but as I consider moving, a pattern of pain slowly begins beating in my head, thud, thud, thud. Unable to rid myself of this hangover, I succumb to the only option I have left: lying in bed, scrolling through social media. It seems every time I tempt the limits of inebriation, I find myself in this predicament. Moreso, it seems every time I awake, regardless of state, I enroll myself to this same ritual. Wake up. Check texts. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Carry on. Study all night. Go to sleep. Wake up. Oh, Daniel’s in a relationship. It’s about time that happened. Carry on. Party all night. Go to sleep. Wake up. Ugh, I wish Lauren didn’t tag me in that photo. Untag. Carry on. This is what life is now. We are all plugged in, and there is no off switch. Set up. Past. Future. Unplug.
***
I felt the realisticness of your touch, and it seemed like we were close enough for your face to rest in my hands and my lips to press against your head, but the reality was too far to grasp, and the memory, sinking back into the past, was too far to grab. I shuddered at the thought, the moment I was convinced I’d never hold you again. I prayed it was just a bad dream. I begged deities I don’t believe in to believe in you, to believe in us.
Sometimes prayers go unheard. Sometimes they’re answered. By whom? Maybe just ourselves. Maybe by luck. Maybe by miracles.
Then, there you were. Here we were. Again. I could reach out and feel your warmth, your touch and your love, our skin against skin, soul against soul.
Words only wish they had the capability to say how I feel about you. The words of Shakespeare, actions of Van Gogh, the beauty of a universe’s lifetime of sunsets, captured in a braze, trapped in embrace.
Poems:
Head Case –
Winter nights
Spent alone
Summer nights
Never home
I’ve had enough of this
Creativity spurned
Loneliness adorned
I can’t get out of my head
This case is not adjourned
Spring delights
Shared with none
Fall twilight
Forgotten
I’ve had enough to live
Absurdity mourned
Confliction worn
I can’t get out of my head
Without a meaning born
Memories never made
Are memories that can never fade
Ones between you and I
As real as you
And as fake as I
Existed between us
Like an unfinished poem
***
Cold streets
Light sheets
And the feeling I’m incomplete
Discrete
Deplete
And wondering if we’d ever meet
Or have we met?
Did I forget?
The grey skies have a way of blocking the sunset
A solemn solace I never finished
An idealist vs. a nihilist
***
Words echo into the night
Dancing far against cars across headlights
Words drain out to delight
Of the ones who can’t see come sunlight
In the dark
No stars
No light
In the dark
So wrong
So right
If I can’t reframe the picture, level the frame, I won’t obtain
A peace of mind ever elusive, always alluded, only imagined
If I can’t reframe the picture, level the frame, I won’t obtain
A peace of mind
Ever elusive
Always alluded
Only imagined
***
Significant Deficiency –
Self-destruction
Reminiscing
On the good times had
Remembering
The times that were bad
Self-destruction
Trying to get back to the memories of youth and of love and of life
Trying to escape the ones that keep creeping in like a truth that you can’t get rid of until you grab the knife
Whatever that knife may be
I know what the knife means to me
Self-destruction
Self-destruction, from which I want to flee
Show me how
I thought I knew how
I used to know how
I no longer know how
Please show me how
Self-destruction
Addiction
Self-inflicted affliction
If you hate yourself
I hate myself?
Do I?
I guess I do
Is that why I do this?
Is that why I do what I do?
Show me how
What I’d say if I knew how to reach out
But I don’t really know how
For this I never have
Have I always hated myself?
Exit.
Escape.
This pain.
This pain compounded by this pain.
That pain compounded by that pain.
Times trying to quit only met with failure
Attempt in vain
In veins
Knowing it’s not the solution and it’s one of the problems but being unable to change makes me feel insane
Something about the “definition of ‘insanity’”
Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result
And on my body, my mind, my physicality and emotion
This is an assault
Perpetuated by me
Unfortunately
But at this point, I can’t take pity
Or maybe taking pity is part of the start of the solution
I wouldn’t blame any if they didn’t take pity on me
But I’ll already be
I’ve already been over how I don’t know how to reach out
But I must keep fighting
And I must admire it’s getting tiring
I must keep fighting
***
Is the promise gone
Or was it never here?
Looking upon my remaining years
With fear
That this will be my last here
My last year
Not by force
But by choice
I can’t use my own voice
***
It’s quiet
There’s white noise
From an air conditioning machine
But it doesn’t annoy me
It’s cool
There’s bright poise
From the sun creeping _
But it doesn’t annoy me
I can see the lives in the buildings that surround me
The past, the present, the future no longer bother me
It’s all I can think about, all I can write about, all I can dream about, and all I can believe about
To know, to feel, but I can’t
Inspiration
Metaphors
Death
I’m at their home knocking
Why should I have the right to take their lives?
Inspiration
Metaphors
Death
They’re just walking, talking
But what separates them from me, them from others, and me from them?
Hiding my face
It doesn’t make sense
Like some 21st century architecture
How can it hold up this?
Hiding my pain
A tug with a barge heading from shore
Hiding my wrist
Hiding my wrist
Can’t see to the bottom
But can speed to the side
Handwriting so messy
What am I trying to hide?
Can see into rooms and lives
Writing muse so messy
It’s something I can’t deny
Something I can’t deny
What it feels like when things are going right
2nd to 34th to 3rd to 25th and life
Walks every day, time relative, and every night
30 and maybe I’m finally feeling alright
Lights on and off
Both on and off for the lights
Lights on or off
Either on or off for the lights
***
I’m ever-consumed by the never-ending news cycle
I’ve been found guilty of succumbing to the free trial
When I was a kid, there was static I had to dial
Now at fingertips, it’s the only joy worthwhile
I’m both the mark and the product
Just looking for a hit
I’m advertised and advertised to
Instant gratification
Bought and sold
Artificial intelligence (but do we have intelligence, does it seem like)
Creativity dystopia
I don’t know what to do
All I know is I need something new
I don’t know what to do
All I know is I need something new
Quotes:
I can analyze and realize until the day I die that these eyes will never do anything about the analysis and realization that I’ll never do anything about who I am.
***
He couldn’t tell if the writing he was reading was poetic, broken beyond repair, or even his own. His one comfort was he had tricked himself into believing his life was poetic because it felt broken beyond repair, and that it wasn’t his own.
***
Riding along a path, seeing faces, seeing places. I’m losing the capability. I’m running, I’m draining, I’m losing the capability because I feel like I’m training for nothing and running out of time.
Just for Fun:
At 7:45am, he was pulled from the embrace of enchanted dreams back into the grip of the real world. With 45 minutes until he had to be at work, he debated his options, weighing the risk of being late with the reward of 9 more minutes of tranquil fantasy. The internal battle struggled on for what seemed like lifetimes, counting down the amount of time he could return to his escape from reality – tick, tick, tick. Before long, he realized he had no other option but acquiesce to his fate. He rose from the protection of his silver microfiber sheets, and it began like any other Friday morning.
Hurriedly now, at 8:27am, he made his way from his maroon and beige, quote unquote luxury-style apartment complex to his freshly-detailed car. Nothing yet was out of the ordinary; running late was part of his usual routine. He opened the door to his car, started the engine, and began the drive to work.
While en route to work, he started to think of the duties he would be tasked with during the day, but quickly his mind drifted to 5:00 in the afternoon and the allure it presents. What bars would he go to? Which friends would he go with? What dumb decisions would he make? Suddenly he was jolted from his daydream with the sound of a horn and the sight of a middle finger. Still, nothing out of the ordinary, as he is generally a pretty shitty driver.
At 8:42am, he walked into the large, glass-walled, open-designed (read: modern) lobby of his firm’s building. As he walked in, he was struck by a condescending glance from the front desk receptionist and then by a pitying glare from the security guard. Not yet shaken, he cautiously stepped toward the elevator. As he pressed the raised circular button, he prayed no one else would congregate with him in the elevator. His prayers went unheard or unanswered. Six people – male and female, ranging from his age to upper 60s – joined him in the elevator. He was afraid he would be forced to succumb to niceties, but much to his surprise, no one said a word. Instead, he again found himself with disapproving eyes surrounding him, silently judging him. This was out of the ordinary.
He sat down at his hotel-system desk and opened his company-issued laptop – time to look productive. Before he had the chance to hide Reddit’s home page behind Microsoft Outlook, he was called into his Director’s office.
Worriedly now, panicked thoughts raced in his mind and unnerved feet stumbled on the path into his boss’s room. The air was gradually becoming thinner. His boss’s lips moved in slow motion, but the words flowed faster than his brain could comprehend. The first sentence of his boss’s that he could make sense of was, “So, what is it, exactly, you would say you do here?” Inundated with fear, he was at a loss for words. He honestly couldn’t provide an answer. He wasn’t entirely sure what he does at work. Defeated and confused, he left the hostile room and returned to his little cube. However, this action did not provide relief or comfort. The feeling of being watched returned to him. He slowly noticed that his coworkers shared his Director’s sentiments. They weren’t really sure what he did there, either.
The temperature was rapidly becoming warmer. He had to get out. He had to find relief, comfort. He excused himself to the hall, and did what any other young adult would do when they have a problem: he called his parents.
“Mom, I need your help,” he slurred.
“Did you make your car payment this month? Why haven’t you called in a week? When was your last dentist appointment? How come you haven’t settled down with a nice girl yet? You’re not, like, into guys, right? When are you saving for a down payment on a house?” His mother replied.
He had no answers. He didn’t hang up the phone to be rude. He hung up the phone because he was speechless. The furthest he had thought about his future was 5:00 this afternoon.
“Wait, that’s it! 5:00!” he thought to himself. All of his worries would be assuaged, his responsibilities postponed, and his sorrows drowned, if only he could make it to 5:00!
Later in the day, he left work precisely at 5:00, directly toward the bar district. He arrived at his friends’ go-to spot at 5:15pm. There, he waited. And he waited. And he waited. At 6pm and six texts to six friends later, he was still alone. He even resorted to sending messages to group chats. But alas, nothing worked. His friends were either still at work, trying to advance their careers, or at home with their new spouses, enjoying a home-cooked meal while watching The Voice. It was almost like his friends all had their shit together. At first, he believed this to be a preposterous idea, but the more he thought about it, it became a clear conclusion. His friends did in fact have their shit together. No one wanted to go to a $10 all-you-can-drink well liquor happy hour.
Then, a tragic epiphany settled upon him: today is the day it happens. Today is the day everyone realizes he is faking it, and he has no idea what he’s doing. For 24 years he’s managed to get by pretending he’s good at work, school, friendships, relationships, math, deciding where to eat dinner, making dentist appointments, ordering completely-necessary items off Amazon, small household chores…. But finally people will realize he doesn’t have a grasp on being an adult. Hell, he’s lucky if he adults at a sixth-grade level.
And so he retreated again to write another short story and post it as his Facebook status. Because hey, if he can’t laugh at himself, well, then, everyone is still laughing at him anyway, so nevermind.
***
The second day after leg day, we find the young male in his natural habitat: peacefully asleep, likely dreaming of girls he will never sleep with. Abruptly he is greeted by the morning alarm, signaling that it is time to arise and perform fellatio on the day. The agitated adult struggles to find the strength to get out of his queen-sized cocoon, not because he is not eager to perform fellatio on the day but because he is simply incapable of getting up. You see, as the specimen works out, its muscles get larger, but in this process its muscles tear, causing the specimen’s legs to feel like jello. Indeed, in his current state his legs are weaker than those of a young, starving actress who moved to Hollywood looking for work, and who is so malnourished she had no choice but to ingest jello pudding found in the casting room of the Cosby Show. Finally he arises and gets ready for work. Once he completes this task, he prepares himself for the arduous journey ahead – a trek filled with the most rugged of terrain: multiple flights of stairs. As he walks down the maroon and beige apartment steps, morbid thoughts begin to creep into his mind: “Is this how it ends? This is how it ends, isn’t it?!” Painfully, eventually, he prolongs imminent death, and makes his way to his car. Upon arriving at the office, he realizes hell is now upon him. He must climb stairs that would taunt even the most revered sherpa. (For this to make sense, you must understand that this is a difficult feat for a Homo sapiens to accomplish, especially an American one.) Step 1, This isn’t so bad. Step 2, This could be worse. Step 3, “Ow! What the fucking hell? This hurts!” the tormented youth screams up at the cathedral ceiling. “Why have you forsaken me?” he curses the iron-plated God of Leg Muscles, but all that is returned is silence, as if this god is muting its menacing laughter. Before the human’s profane echoes can subside, he manages to make his way into the office.
As he sips his morning coffee, he decides, “Fuck it, I’m never working out legs again; I’ll just have chicken legs forever.” Satisfied with his resolution, he continues to go about his morning routine, deleting e-mails. Once he finishes his roast of dark and black heaven, with no sugar or creamer because those are for pussies, nature calls. The young professional braces his desk as he stands up from his chair. He slowly limps toward the bathroom. Truly vulnerable, he could be trapped in a conversation filled with small talk on his path to the bathroom, but he escapes to the Men’s Room door, unscathed. The 24 year old thinks he has successfully confronted all of his challenges for the day, but he is only deceiving himself. As he tries to get up from the toilet, his legs completely fail, and he comes to terms with the evil little fact he’s secretly known all along: leg day would be the death of him. Alas the young male is doomed to spend the rest of his days in the office bathroom, confined to a small prison of wooden bifold doors, with no hope of having cellular reception, and being forced to write this short story.
So, nobody likes a clip show, especially of clips never shown. But I do love me a good fucking slop bowl.
Now back to your regularly scheduled programming next time… (hey look another metaphor! or something. (you can just say things!))
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