Feeling unlike myself. Whoever he is. Filtering through the grey cloud day, these infiltrating moments of poor resolution keep halting my stride. I’m a blur amidst a crowd of standing still totem poles, this drab dorm culture, those self important smiles and weak hand shakes, illusions of height and power, prowess and deserving, minds absent of preservation, burning synapses like bridges to the past with these designer jeans and drugs, those from the dirty hands of the street, unconvinced they worked until the skin is on fire and you douse yourself in a cold water bath to turn those flaming demons into steam, but hold your breath or else you may accidentally inhale them again, recycling the process of fear and self loathing.
I haven’t felt right probably because I haven’t written. Haven’t slept well. Unknown drug withdrawals. Climate change. All of these things. Haven’t climbed into the new suit of my old best personality traits. The neck hurts like a spinal injury.
A continued rant… now with a timed goal. 2:44 pm – 3:00
Brown-red table and all of the noises that would incite boo’s from an audience in a movie theater. All black wearing phantom lady darts her eyes around moodily. I realize the sound of a sorority girl is the same everywhere. Lots of filler words and upturned consonant sounds. They make statements sound like questions because they slowly rise the tone of voice as they talk, laughing mildly, falsely, in between caffeinated sentences, so quick, they talk like television adds but seemingly more devoid of substance, at least there is an end goal with the commercial. It wraps up in a matter of seconds. This conversation I’ve had the pleasure of overhearing sounds supremely one sided, or else they sound exactly the same, equally likely. Moving on. A painted with pierced nipples to my right. Oddly alien features otherwise, as if the artist spent all of the time perfecting those illicit little mounds of flesh we all, as mammals, have on our bodies. Maybe there is some freudian reason we make women cover them up on the beach. Some buried nostalgia of being a baby in mother’s arms.
Lost the thought. There was a feminist point to be made but I lost it terribly. Buried under the cacophony of these clown painted faces and lost art galleries beneath the city, those catacombs where mirrors are put in place of bodies and skeletons we are all, fragile framed and enticed to dance under the cherry blossoms, when dead, the waterfront glows with a buzz of life surging up from the depths and all our shipwrecked friends return all at once with a gentle vengeance, askance a place to stay, a cardboard sign that no one reads, harvard graduate homeless, the parking lot variety and the hollowed out organs of light weight swimmers and jogging animals, nursing mothers in nursing homes, gratitude falls flat like old soda and rots the teeth if over embellished, the sister paradigm and the absentee brother, the lack of familial support with the heart and passions exceed boundaries fasting than flash floods crash over sleeping high mountain cities where such a flood has never occurred. This is a sleeping village and the air is cold enough to freeze water in an instant and they are all buried in ice like Pompeii buried beneath volcanic shit. Yes, shit.
Do I feel better?