it’s a misty orange night, the clouds catching the light from downtown and suspending it in the air above the trees. the belligerent sounds from other apartments that he had expected to go on well into the night had already tapered off, leaving him with the humming chatter of the refrigerator and his thoughts. he didn’t have many in the middle of this night. were they in a proverbial physical form the size of a dime, he could have pushed them around his palm for closer inspection; analyzed the nuances of their form, picked out with an uncanny precision the minute details of their machinations. as it was, they rotated gregariously through his mind as he slipped in and out of focus, his concentration easily forestalled by the sound of rain beginning to fall outside, rattling off a neighbor’s hard plastic patio furniture. like a digitized marquee running across the surface of his eyes, his vision occasionally sharpening to reveal giant letters reading something like CALL YOUR PARENTS or YOU’RE GOING CAMPING IN TWO DAYS BUT YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE AND THAT’S GOING TO STRESS YOU OUT A LOT TOMORROW OR RATHER TODAY BECAUSE NOW IT’S JUST EARLY or YOU’RE NOT HIGH ANYMORE SO MAYBE YOU SHOULD CALL IT A NIGHT SINCE YOU’RE NOT REALLY DOING ANYTHING WHICH IS WAY TOO COMMON FOR YOU THESE DAYS EVEN IF YOU DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT WHICH YOU DON’T SO MAYBE YOU SHOULD GET HIGH AGAIN GO GET HIGH AGAIN I THINK YOU SHOULD GO GET HIGH AGAIN THINK ABOUT HOW THE RAIN WILL SOUND YOU NEVER REALLY SLEEP ANYWAY WHO CARES ABOUT HOW YOUR COWORKERS TRY NOT TO NOTICE HOW SWOLLEN AND SUNKEN YOUR EYES ARE WHAT’S IT TO THEM YOU DO YOUR JOB SO WHO CARES or LAUREN IS MOVING A LOT YOU’RE GOING TO GET A TALKING TO IF SHE WAKES UP AND YOU’RE NOT THERE AND REALLY WHY AREN’T YOU THERE ALREADY GO TO BED IDIOT.
Not that I write anything.
Not that I really ever write anything.
It’s mostly just thoughts, occurring in a line, and every once and a while a part of that line is interesting enough to write down. For some reason, you need to make a record of it in reality, amongst your things and interrupting the middle of your friend’s lines. Your sight is the wall between all that reality knowing that piece of the line you can see so clearly, as if it occurred to you as you stood behind a one-way mirror, from where you constantly criticized your interrogation of the world.
Most of the time, you hopefully wish in precursor that it would be something pleasing and profound enough to reteach you your understanding of your words, that enlightenment would reverberate back to you changed from how it fits in with the rest of that sprawling reality of yours. Most of the time, it just sticks that, while that thought line keeps spitting by just behind your retinas like mental ticker tape.
Your world is a paper mache monolith you stabilize and conform daily. Sometimes willy nilly with brazen defiance to noticing, sometimes with desperate percision, your joint aching as you painfully will them not to shake.
There aren’t many moments alone anymore. Days full of so many faces. So many words. So many rooms holding vastly different but no less demanding intentions. So many blocks of time highlighted on paper, designating periods of thought line to things we can’t afford to flex into the dialogue right now. We’d have yards of typewriter jams on our hands. I can’t afford it. The open spaces with nothing yet penciled in make me nervous.
To rest seems like forfeiting momentum, even though the forward motion of my progress could be compared to rolling down stairs in fits and starts, my equilibrium snatched from me by some sad twist of fate. Any level moment before the next stumbling decline is merely chance, but it’s in those moments I assure myself that it’s all apart of a plan, a system. It’s enough to have me braced for impact almost every time.
Participation is a long overdue advancement. Then again, that’s only something I feel when I’m alone. I can only envision the digital marquee in my brain in the dark and quiet in between moments, as if I let it run off for awhile, around the fenced enclosure where I can keep it in my line of vision, sometimes contemplating it’s adventure, usually while tattooing the textbook definition of ‘metaphysics’ on my skull in some sort of semi adult stoner comedy.
I rate this work of art, created with flourish from newspaper and paste, the time i just spent distracted by something else before finishing this sentence: 23 minutes.