|
| +=[ demanding ]=+
He wondered how anyone ever got used to the taste of coffee. In fact, he wondered how he ever got used to the taste of coffee. By nature, it's a rather vile and bitter brew, designed for the sole purpose of trying to defeat the body's circadian rhythm. He imagined it like a chemical wrench being through into the meticulous gears of his organs. Usually he didn't get contemplative until sometime past noon, around the time that he was randomly swirling the pudding in the cup with the same spoon that he brought every day from his apartment. Sterling silver, it seemed like.
It was a Monday. Or maybe a Thursday. It defintely wasn't a Wednesday, because then he would have brought barbecue chips instead of ranch. Whatever day it was, he had managed to reach Nirvana. Sure, it sounded silly, but the next breath that Wilson took tasted like honeysuckle. There wasn't a single flower in the break room—only concrete and double-layered glass windows—but he could taste honeysuckle. And when he exhaled, he could swear that he saw butterflies form and evaporate in the moisture of his breath. That's when it hit him. The sheer, unbridled, unmistakable beauty of perfection; and it had all been revealed to him as his boss fired him.
It didn't make much difference anyway, as Wilson quickly blacked out and only regained consciousness once he was inside the Taft State Penitentiary with dried blood on his hands. He sighed.
"Fuck. Now I'll have to be reborn again. This close to escaping the endless cycle of reincarnation and I blew it."
He sighed and quickly offered his cellmate a carton of cigarettes. | | |
| +=[ like that color ]=+
I would love to give into every jealous tendency I have had. There's always this puckish element in that I choose not to indulge; I choose to deny and shush and then promptly sendit upon its way. But why? I mean isn't this any less natural of an emotion than any other, but I chide myself and move along. Right? Suppose that I don't really remove those jealous feelings, that I can't completely extract those pangs of envy, and that other the years they've done nothing but build up: drop of avarice after drop of avarice. What happens? It just seems like coveting and wanting and desiring are so basic and so instinctive. You desire food (not necessarily of any particular quality) because your body tells you that you need it to survive.
So why do I desire better looks, better grades, better cars, better everything? What am I supposed to do with that. If I was Christian, at least I'd have an answer and totally commit myself to fighting temptation and strengthening my devotion to the Lord. But that doesn't work so well with my little life scheme. I've spent, seriously, an hour mulling on this (sort of half-heartedly) and I really don't know what I should think. I haven't drawn any real conclusions, which worries me.
I think I have at least one existential crisis a week. That's my average. | | |
| +=[ according to whom ]=+
I've always hated when people tell me that these are the best years of my life. It's very much a "grass-is-greener" sort of thing. Except we have Astroturf and they have asphalt—they're very different things and very different parts of a lifetime.
The idea that I am currently living the best years of my life and have no ability to appreciate this fact is a very depression notion. The idea that I will not have the means to appreciate this unappreciable period of my life until it is a thing of the past is also very depressing. Ultimately, their is not positive aspect of that idea, so I say we chuck it completely. | | |
| +=[ comparative lit ]=+
Bees. Bees. Buzz.
Summer hums in the distance, promising me fruits too red ripe, boasting flesh that makes your lips pucker. Empty morning promises, maybe. So I attach hope to those summer dreams, weighing down each red balloon, replacing its flight of fancy with some substance, some substance. Submerging them in the reality of onion days peeling, peeling, peeling towards tomorrow.
We're reading Esperanza's story and I can't compare. How old this little girl is! How aged and weary and world-worn is this voice that is almos singing me Mango Street. I'm scared that her balloons are redder, fuller. That her songs will sing themselves while mine stay flat and dull, lifeless notes caged by lines.
This girl will outstrip me, outpace me, outme me. She'll sprout wings and beat them. The leaves will swirl and wave her off, shouting out "Bon voyage" in silent leap-speak. I'll still be in some primordial ooze. Why haven't I been struck? Why am I so glass-half-empty?
Glug glug.
Glass-all-empty? | | |
| +=[ trample ]=+
I think I think too much. I'm worried about things that I shouldn't be worried about: boys, prom, wedding gifts, water bottles, chapstick, lotion, hives, beehives, and so on.
And I'm kind of mad that he just waltzed back into my life. Because I cannot be having this sort of stuff interrupt me right now. Rhiza gave a perfect voice to the sort of contentment (read "satisfaction brought on by force of uncontrollable circumstances") that I've sort of, almost, kind of managed to work into my life. And this isn't going to help. I moved on, didn't I? I totally moved on. Right?
This is that whole me-trying-to-convince-me instead of me-trying-to-convince-you. Stream of consciousness be damned, I don't like being self-aware. I can hear some buzzing in the back of my head warning about the unexamined life. No one down here can be good for me. No one down here can be packed up and brought along. No one down here can help me grow up and get going. Seriously. There's this fear that I'll get tied down to something I really don't want to be involved in and then things will get fucked up. Then there's the greater fear that I won't even have that chance; that things will stay static and silent and still. And I'm not sure which one pisses me off more.
There has got to be a better way of sorting this shit out. Magic 8 Ball? Ouija Board? Seriously. I'm up for anything. Go ahead. Fuck with me.
(God, I love that part of Hustle and Flow with the cracked out bum and DJay. I'm grinning now.) | | |
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