Posts tagged "writing"
in a way i hate my cat. he’s a stupid, white, cross eyed bitch that thinks he can sit on my keyboard and lick my face when i’m sleeping. he sheds on my black clothes and and stares at me with those dumb, blue eyes, but in reality, he’s the only one that always comes back. somehow he knows when i need the company, and in those moments i don’t care if i’m wearing a $600 black dress from germany, i’m just thankful that he hasn’t forgotten about me.
it’s just me and the ball. my hearing descends as my vision tapers, even the condescending shouts from my coach can’t reach me now. the sun burns my eyes but i hardly feel it. all my concentration is focused solely on one solitary entity: that ball.
it’s in these moments that i forget every obstacle, every predicament my existence has ever encountered. if only for an instant, my entire sentience seems no longer entant; every contrasting passion lies dormant in the souls of my cleats.
driven by a fierce hunger for glory, my feet race my heart in remorseless competition. in aggressive anticipation, i strike, burying the ball as well as my contenders credence. as fast as it went, my hearing arrives with applause of admiration for my first, ever, warranted goal.
and there you go. left with nothing more than a smile. leaving nothing more than a mere idea. an idea that there’s something more in this rancid place. a sexual intensity, a sense of wonder that i never knew; a hope to find a human with as much integrity and purpose as yo… this idea.
i’ve got this notion that maybe someone exists. someone that’s not just a nobody. not even once. not to anyone. always someone. in a black sweater, wearing a guitar. a blue one with ‘they say angels don’t kill’ on it. never has an image been so clear in my mind. almost as if it were a faint memory. a remembrance of my psyche. surely it’s got to be just a feeble reminder of the perfect i’ll never see. surely no one can be that greatly impressionable. men rise and fall like the winter wheat leaving nothing more than the ghost of stems; a mere conception of their existence. surely.
the ground was soaked and sinister from a long night of rain, though it looked as if a year had passed since this town had seen any form of time. from my window i could see a single street lamp giving a glimpse of the remorse this old ramshackle wore. every window was arcane and desolate, looking remarkably like his eyes the moment the last bit of blood drained his veins onto the bathroom floor not moments ago. i sit with my head against the open window frame in the darkest hour of morning; seconds before the first signs of light complete the earth’s halo to give feeble life to this void. that’s when i’ll leave, in seconds. out of the gloom emerges an even blacker shadow; the ghost of this abandoned chunk of oblivion. it struggles to keep on its feet, falling onto walls and grasping for breath in the heaving morning air. its shackles clink against the stone in a weary rhythm; the song of the sick. the only sick still alive in this godforsaken place. i watch the condemned drag itself down the street, tearing its clothes in intolerable madness. a scream tears out its throat, a horrid, forgotten sound, the last of thousands. “is anyone there?” the hopeless words screech off the walls and echo back in their lonesome return. it dies. the last of the ill-fated. all the dead, now, truly, deceased. the earliest glimpse of day shines blood red, illuminating the tarnished window panes, threatening to invade. gripping for my sanity, i silently slip into the shadows and make my escape.
it’s weird when you’re crying at a family event and you lock yourself in the bathroom because you just can’t hold in in anymore, and suddenly all your problems become public and you have people knocking, trying to ask if you’re okay, but you don’t really want to say anything in fear that your voice might not sound the way you want it to… it’s those moments that are really the lowest points in life.
like a forgotten dog, i sit at the window watching them without me. laughing, arguing and rousing old memories, always just in the background as an underlying melody. i watch them glance my way once or twice and i get excited. maybe today’s the day, perhaps they thought of me. but it was only the lock. they forgot the lock. they leave through the front with me in the back still pleading, don’t leave me, please, take me with you.
real silence is extremely rare. there is always a subtle static in the air; the faint echo of epic cries and unnerved isolation. the worst are the cars that always have this notion that they have someplace to be. to be deaf would be a grand experience. i long for the silence ive never heard. that was the instant i heard the world settle to its foundation and sigh in precious relief, and then came the snow
in utter silence.
you take pictures because you want to remember moments; you write things because you want to remember moments; you buy souvenirs because you want to remember moments. but really, all for what? you take so many pictures and store them on a hard drive; do you actually look at them? all of them? do you read everything you’ve ever written? keep every souvenir?
you dont pay attention to them, and after you’re gone, no one else will either; yet at the thought of throwing them away, you perish. you want to remember; everyone wants to remember, but at the end, forgetting is always in the epilogue.
most often i’ll lie on the grass with my camera maybe somewhere near my face where i can maybe see what im taking a picture of. i never really know until i look back on them later. i let my hand and the camera do the work. somehow, lying on the grass with my camera at odd angles seems so utterly true; just as things are, with the absolute, luminescent sky in the background. letting the focus carry life and the shutter bring death seems just as real as it gets.
it’s a vile moment when you initially realize that you truly do not know anyone around you. but it is so utterly sinister when you first consciously comprehend that, not only are you enclosed by strangers, but the one you call self is the most distant stranger of all. it’s at that instant that the epitome of your loneliness has reached the brink of insanity.
as summer comes nearer and nearer and i feel the teasing of the end of school days and the sun hiding only just behind the clouds. but only just. i know that with the heat, you will come, once again. the scarce number of days im allowed to glimpse your perfect face. flirting with the notion of what we may accomplish, to endure the clock is a challenge. if only we had the time.
and i love it. i cannot express the immensity of the fucks i do not give. and im not just saying that like everyone else. ive gotten to the point where i sometimes purposely do things to get a reaction from people. usually not a good one either. not to get attention or anything, cause i really dont admire getting attention but the guilty truth is that i love making people believe details about myself that are completely false.
does this make me a bitch? maybe.
dishonest? most of the time.
do i give a fuck?
these words. these unjust and condescending words. they may not be genuinely ignorant but it seems as if no one can attempt to gain knowledge of my particular persona. i surround myself by pacifists and continue to unknowingly scream and others who attempt to pass through. i fear that, even to myself, i will forever remain a mystery.