long random ramble
Boundless Worries for a Long Night
I can feel my hair falling out, creeping back across my head. Every new empty spot, a part of my body I’ve haven’t seen before. Ever so often I get terrible headaches. I get overheated and can only cool down by cutting my hair off in the sink. Always late at night, pacing back and forth, I grab roughly at tuffs of my thick hair with one hand, and hack away at the other. I use these thick planks of metal with a red handle. I think there are supposed to be used to cut construction paper. I know this because the next day my scalp feels like I pulled each hair out individually with my teeth.
I’ve burned the same album so many times, hoping to incite the same certain reaction I felt only I could feel but knew I was wrong, only to see the music manifest differently in every pair of virgin ears. Worst still, when those I give music too feel the way I must have at first, I feel repulsed. It’s so off putting to be disgusted at what is basically my own feeling of joy, though represented in another.
Sometimes my stomach hurts furiously when I try and eat the healthiest of foods; the only thing it never rejects is candy.
I don’t really like apples, and feel ashamed when I admit that. I hate bananas though and take every opportunity to let my contemporaries know. I do, however love banana bread and don’t mind candies of those particular varietals.
I hate other foods too. Mainly those foods that are mushy. Or remind me of bugs. And I don’t like looking at strawberries close up, the seeds remind me of the clogged pores on my nose.
I’m broke and I don’t know when I won’t be. I used to feel like I was in a holding pattern, constantly circling my tail just a hair’s breathe behind. Now I cant even hold the pattern close, I’m just stuck without a horizon. Just grey flat boundless broke.
And adhered, one feels permanently to my wisp of a job. Each day I ask, how could something so intangible and meaningless have found out how to get into my bones? It’s set up home and turned to lead, slowing my hands, poisoning my skin.
I want to write a garbage novel. Well, not really a garbage novel, but rather a guilty pleasure
crafted solely for my own enjoyment. Full of murder and cold taciturn types that stalk the halls of some drafty castle with clandestine hearts and poisoned daggers. Strong types that rise above their station and plunge their hands full flung into icy uncharted waters.
Not even the most cliché fantasy novel is easy to write if you’re a deadbeat. Everything is difficult when you would rather sleep face down on the keys, hoping that the rustling of my brow will by chance force a few words on the screen. Everything is easier then expressing myself and paying the bills.
I refuse to die in a fire unless it’s started by careless smoking in bed. I will be extremely angry if I die from smoke inhalation two years after I stubbed out my last cigarette.
Twice I’ve woken up with my house full of smoke, my dinner left on the range reduced to ashes. My smoke alarms deactivated and stashed in the hallways closet. It still smells a bit like soot in the living room and spaghetti has never tasted the same. I will not be killed my pasta fumes. I will however pass out in the park as my house airs out.
Sometimes, nothing can be nicer than moving a couch or a table. I like to see the contents of my pockets, like to find the things I lose when I relax. Quarters, four-color pens, old school photos are all I found today.
Why can nothing beyond small gestures and moments hold my attention? Not, the trees for the forest, rather, the trees are the forest, I guess and I see what I see.
My version of the Iliad would be barely over ten pages long. Five pages devoted to cold breezes upon a baby’s brow as it hung above the city; the little lord for so short a day resting a moment before he departs; half a page to the dull shine of shields, a paragraph to Hector, a line to the eternal muse and a half a dozen pages upon fields and flowers.
Events never seem to translate, just the hem of a dress, or the cool feel of water. The phone is hot to the touch, my ears are burning, and I feel I can see your hands while you talk. Don’t know why but that seems more important.
The pattern is just too close to discern quite yet, and after a hundred thousand little lines, maybe it will finally snap tight. I’ll sit back and fire off ever decreasing circles, until I’ve ensnared something of the stuff of life. Until I’ve brought bones out from a cloud.
I can feel my hair falling out, creeping back across my head. Every new empty spot, a part of my body I’ve haven’t seen before. Ever so often I get terrible headaches. I get overheated and can only cool down by cutting my hair off in the sink. Always late at night, pacing back and forth, I grab roughly at tuffs of my thick hair with one hand, and hack away at the other. I use these thick planks of metal with a red handle. I think there are supposed to be used to cut construction paper. I know this because the next day my scalp feels like I pulled each hair out individually with my teeth.
I’ve burned the same album so many times, hoping to incite the same certain reaction I felt only I could feel but knew I was wrong, only to see the music manifest differently in every pair of virgin ears. Worst still, when those I give music too feel the way I must have at first, I feel repulsed. It’s so off putting to be disgusted at what is basically my own feeling of joy, though represented in another.
Sometimes my stomach hurts furiously when I try and eat the healthiest of foods; the only thing it never rejects is candy.
I don’t really like apples, and feel ashamed when I admit that. I hate bananas though and take every opportunity to let my contemporaries know. I do, however love banana bread and don’t mind candies of those particular varietals.
I hate other foods too. Mainly those foods that are mushy. Or remind me of bugs. And I don’t like looking at strawberries close up, the seeds remind me of the clogged pores on my nose.
I’m broke and I don’t know when I won’t be. I used to feel like I was in a holding pattern, constantly circling my tail just a hair’s breathe behind. Now I cant even hold the pattern close, I’m just stuck without a horizon. Just grey flat boundless broke.
And adhered, one feels permanently to my wisp of a job. Each day I ask, how could something so intangible and meaningless have found out how to get into my bones? It’s set up home and turned to lead, slowing my hands, poisoning my skin.
I want to write a garbage novel. Well, not really a garbage novel, but rather a guilty pleasure
crafted solely for my own enjoyment. Full of murder and cold taciturn types that stalk the halls of some drafty castle with clandestine hearts and poisoned daggers. Strong types that rise above their station and plunge their hands full flung into icy uncharted waters.
Not even the most cliché fantasy novel is easy to write if you’re a deadbeat. Everything is difficult when you would rather sleep face down on the keys, hoping that the rustling of my brow will by chance force a few words on the screen. Everything is easier then expressing myself and paying the bills.
I refuse to die in a fire unless it’s started by careless smoking in bed. I will be extremely angry if I die from smoke inhalation two years after I stubbed out my last cigarette.
Twice I’ve woken up with my house full of smoke, my dinner left on the range reduced to ashes. My smoke alarms deactivated and stashed in the hallways closet. It still smells a bit like soot in the living room and spaghetti has never tasted the same. I will not be killed my pasta fumes. I will however pass out in the park as my house airs out.
Sometimes, nothing can be nicer than moving a couch or a table. I like to see the contents of my pockets, like to find the things I lose when I relax. Quarters, four-color pens, old school photos are all I found today.
Why can nothing beyond small gestures and moments hold my attention? Not, the trees for the forest, rather, the trees are the forest, I guess and I see what I see.
My version of the Iliad would be barely over ten pages long. Five pages devoted to cold breezes upon a baby’s brow as it hung above the city; the little lord for so short a day resting a moment before he departs; half a page to the dull shine of shields, a paragraph to Hector, a line to the eternal muse and a half a dozen pages upon fields and flowers.
Events never seem to translate, just the hem of a dress, or the cool feel of water. The phone is hot to the touch, my ears are burning, and I feel I can see your hands while you talk. Don’t know why but that seems more important.
The pattern is just too close to discern quite yet, and after a hundred thousand little lines, maybe it will finally snap tight. I’ll sit back and fire off ever decreasing circles, until I’ve ensnared something of the stuff of life. Until I’ve brought bones out from a cloud.