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Michael considered fate at 02:38   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

Imagining to myself what it might be like to be a heroin addict, maybe a lot like this need to have little squares of plastic beneath my fingers, tiny little black paintints on each one - "A", "S", "D", "F". Maybe a lot like the pull, drag, punch power of her - needling my brain like some alien gun devoid of real-life bullets but loaded with piercing unseen lasers striking through my skull. Maybe a lot like the crippling inability to complete tasks, follow through, be motivated, the plague of a slacker betwixt the real world and academia. Maybe a lot like life.

Come home from work on the bike, the sun long since set down over the western horizon off to meet and greet with the peasants of china, and just the slightest hint of moisture on the air - an incoming storm, a cold front. Probably fog tonight. Bike wouldn't start, just twitched like a dying fish when I fired the starter. Rolled her down the hill a bit popping the clutch to turn the engine over. Switched the ignition back to the "on" position, swore at the Italians, and popped the clutch down the hill. Back tire went squirrely for a second and I thought I might lose it in the sand of the parking lot but I hit a bare spot of tar and the pilot sports grippy-grabbed at the ground, shooting the bike into an upright position.

Rode home in the silence of a roaring motorcycle engine.

Rode home in the blinding darkness.

Spent 9 hours in front of the computer at work today so when I got home I stopped for a second, looked around, caught my breath, checked my messages, and.. got back on the computer. The little keys click-clicking soothing the sorry ache of an office POW.. Sometimes the kidnapped learns to love the captor.

Have some perverse need to write about her, or the other her, or the other her, or the other her. There will, I suspect, always be another her - this hopeless dark romantic will always be fishing in murky waters, always catching glimpses of exotic fish rippling by beneath the boat.

If I were a movie I'd be a 3-star dark comedy.

It's something about this darkness I keep mentioning that makes me just a little wary, fearful almost. It's the thought of all the six billion people on this earth all rolling over sleeplessly in their beds, all getting up and rubbing their eyes in the morning and squinting at the light, all of them - every last one of them - chest rising, chest falling, chest rising. It's one of the scariest thoughts I've had in a long time. Right this instant there are millions of people sound asleep. There are millions of people, probably, running. On the move. In cars. Rushing. So much rushing and then still, millions sleeping like a log. Many more restless and uncomfortable. Many more just not sure what their supposed to be doing.

And the darkness gets a little closer. I open my eyes sometimes in the morning expecting to see rain pelting down throw the window, through the fan in the window. I expect the fan to burn out from the moisture in the electric motor, I actually have this one thought on a somewhat regular basis, but it never happens. Maybe because I had an old fan catch on fire once and, while it wasn't a matter of danger, I was terribly sad to see this venerable old box fan spin it's last blade. Maybe I have a complex. That fan used to be my parent's fan back as far as I can remember. Us kids had smaller units, first these old gray all-metal framed ones and then small white box fans, but the parents - they had the big box fan. When I could, I'd steal it. My parents weren't quite the fan mongrel I am and so on the less balmy nights they wouldn't even turn the thing on. I'd bring it into my room and put it under the covers, usually up against the bedboard and I'd tuck the edges of the blanket under my legs and hold down the corners with my hands. I'd let the wind rushing off the blades create a big blanket-bubble and I'd sit in there, the boy in the bubble, and you know I can't think of a single bad thought I had under that blanket. I'm willing to bet there wasn't a single bad thought in my whole body.

It's awful hard to make someone else count when you know there are six billion people on the earth. It's awfully hard to convince yourself there is something there, something worthwhile. It's hard to believe it means anything at all and it's hard to believe she'd even give a shit anyway. So, protecting myself, I'll pretend whole heartedly that I don't believe it. I'll pretend that I know that it won't work out.

On the inside I'm cursing the concept of faith and hope, hating the torment these two sister emotions have inflicted upon me. I'm getting more numb everyday and with the indifference, well, fuck it.

Imagine myself one day down the road being married or having a good job or maybe being respected in the community and it's a funny excercise because firstly, I know it so well, and secondly I see the complete and utter futility. Responsibility is like a drug. Responsibility, after all, is what keeps us going. Responsibility is what makes us do what we do when we do it. But it's recursive. It breeds on itself.

Really wish I could climb in bed and stay there. Not just for a good night's sleep or an afternoon nap, no, I mean full on sleep marathon with no guilt whatsoever. Unfortunately, as much as I enjoy lying in bed semi-conscious after a long night's sleep, I also operate this taco stand in the real world and proverbial taco stands make for some serious responsibility which, in turn, makes for stressful guilt. Guilt about getting up. Guilt about getting stuff done.

Talked tonight about emotion and the human condition. Noted that emotion, not logic, probably drives us more often than not and - why? What is the evolutionary advantage? Why cry over spilt milk? If we could reason out our next meal and our next car and our next wife .. you honestly think the world would be so crazy? Boring maybe, not so crazy though.

Desperately need to know, right now, the heart of the matter with her. Need to know what she is thinking and what goes through her head. Need to know where I'll be in two years, essentially - not geographically speaking but mentally speaking. If I can't shake this monkey on my back it's going to grow into a gorilla and I'm not prepared for that at all.

Will not know. Won't be told, informed, or otherwise guaranteed useful information down the road. Won't ever know and so, will have to take matters into my own hands and forget she ever existed, forget the thoughtful, sweet, caring person I thought I knew. Will have to write her off like bad debt and maybe, just maybe, I'll have to declare emotional bankruptcy.

Or someday she will realize I am the most amazing person she will ever have the privelege to have the opportunity to begin such a beautiful relationship with.

Someday never comes. I stopped believing in good things, people wise, sometime this year. It was a long time coming so I can't put all the blame on any one instance.. people have just been letting me down for years.

Look at the clock, look back. I realize there is nothing to say to that.

I'm a 3-star dark comedy.