I was on my way to work when it hit me, going back and forth between NPR and Culdesac. My light was green, but the rain blinded me; black eyes of black magic, they stole my dreams. Driving parallel to the sunrise when it blindsided me, listening to the violins from Final Fantasy. Shards of glass floating seemed like tranquility, cut across my cheek, let the air out the bag that was supposed to be protecting me. I shattered my time bone, and time is not the antidote. They told me to stop dreaming. I’m not sure when I stopped breathing. I am not the lead, I work better in ensembles. I am nothing without We, the People (see: The Preamble). I seem to only get Christian Mingle and J-Dates in my inbox, when I’m an atheist in bed, I’m holding out for my own house. They say that’s where the heart is, but the two of us, we’re separated. It was an asshole, and with my brain it always feuded. I was just trying to be your friendly savior; they called me Buddy Christ. You could easily find my hidden thoughts; you read me like I was Kids’ Highlights. A year ago, I was the very definition of an April’s Fool. Now, an empty bench among gravestones to me seems kind of beautiful, like a kind of truth; it’s a kinder truth.
It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart. Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure and the memory so possessed him that for the moment there was nothing to do but to pretend. I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others–young clerks in the dusk, waiting the most poignant moments of night and life.
The wind only blows back echoes, while it carries forth our memories, that you never hear, down in the canyon beneath my wings. Sinkholes, a new Pope, and you know what’s the real tragedy? We used to fly kites, and dream bigger than reality. You exist in words now, no longer in my heart; trust me, that’s better. I used to have a pool table, now I don’t have a leg to stand on. Sometimes I wish I had a similar fate to my character from The Election. Fake is now the real real, and fake is now the only truth that’s being told, and I’m starting to feel solely responsible for everyone that chooses to forget me. I mean that internally, I’m talking about myself there. We’ve been at war with terror since I was aged just twelve years. I’m the enemy within, who signs off on all his own wire taps; reverse Driving Miss Daisy, at midnight, hoping to fall into a speed trap. Sure I’m designated, but you want to talk generation gap? I still watch Rugrats, and these six year olds don’t even have an app for that. They used to call me Crab, I finally get that now. I’ve finally added Hermit to it, throw me back into the marina now. Reminiscing about the past is not at all like how it sounds. They used to call me back, but I finally shut that down; finally shut me out.
I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a meaningless life. I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. I hope something happens. I’m restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic. They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired. I’m a romantic; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t.
Read Across America no longer means the same thing. Sure I did it for some Pizza Hut, but I also did it with sincerity, and a lot of those books still remain with me, not only on overlooked shelves, but on my mind, and in my speech, with some sense of regularity. Touch screens are the tyranny, as such familiarity is a rarity of prosperity, when the only true clarity is the dexterity of feeling those pages turn in your own hands like therapy. So austerity? You can find it all in a good book for free like charity. Legacy. Community. Britta’d them like she ruined me. Unfiltered, making videos, shouting “Campus News!” while my heart was broke. Went around and touted that we never gonna’ stop. Well, them stopped us. Period. And me no pause, because me upset, that we all forget, is it over yet? Is this a thing now? Throwing cats and pasts in boxes and drowning ’em? Fuck you Cameron, you don’t know unobtanium. People will read this and say I’m acting Childish. You’re right, I mimic, I don’t even know what my own voice is. Unless you put it up on screen, I don’t know what you mean. All I see is static, channel flips on my dreams. So the good old days? Yeah, I miss them, but they’re history. That was my story. Those were our lives clouded in memories. Shot, captured, edited, uploaded. We were uprooted. We went unnoticed. Now I just sit back and watch our self-created Zapruder films.
He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him. If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again. Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.
I’ve started framing rejection letters. It feels good to be discarded. Tired of being a WNGWhore, anonymity is how I started, back when I didn’t have an email, and had concerns that I’d be fired. My diploma’s still sitting in its envelope, buried underneath my Blu shelf, for even when it dies, this well will forever be tapped. I’ve been on Oceanic, now I just want to take Ajira back. I miss eating Girl Scout cookies. I like the smell of things burning. Intelligent conversation is my idea of intelligent design. If I moved into the basement, my roommate would literally be God’s lines. My sense of faith is akin to Affleck’s in Dogma. I squandered it, but at least Serendipity was an honest bitch, while I was a douchebag of Congressional proportions. Last year, I was living like an Archie comic. Betty and Veronica? I only had eyes for [redacted]. Let’s be real a sec, and pretend that I’m no longer single, and think of how many hearts I’ll really break with that revelation? A year ago, was a century, of when we hit the iceberg. We didn’t sink, at least not until the exam was finally over. If I’d have played my cards right then, I might be celebrating an anniversary. We were never meant to be, but this is not the end of me, and this is not my chapter eight, though we were both Gatsby-esque. You were always American Lit, while everyone called me American-Lite. My idea of Daisy isn’t a blonde Carey Mulligan, so please try again, and please try brunette. Runaway yellow car, this accident is hard to forget.
April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice. I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it’s these things I’d believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendoulsy sorry, I turned away. I don’t want just words. If that’s all you have for me, you’d better go.
Roads are paved with the accidents of drunk drivers, and crying mothers, mechanical pencil weapons with Beanie Baby ammunition. Everything I put in my mouth is a cigarette, from gum to pens; how’s that for an oral fixation? Life was construction paper, and Elmer’s glue; I used scissors wrong for much of the first grade. Pretzels and fruit punch bottles on field day, it was Honors Geometry that really kicked my ass. Now the only given I know is that I have proofs of all my failures. I couldn’t toss a washer, serve and volley, or even stack cups, but I was good at crab soccer (namesake irony, go figure). In the war against dreams, reality took many casualties. Went to Wal-Mart, and bought some licensed tees, from the kids’ section, boys, ages seven to sixteen. My mom doesn’t ask why I feel the need to wear Renaissance names on my chest; she knows they’re not painters, they’re my childhood friends. I used to wear plaid button downs, now I bleed the colors of my uniform. Time of death, no pulse; it’s whenever I hit publish, it’s whenever I hit pavement. The best ones usually aren’t our own; stories, words, friends, loves, and deaths. I feel bad for whoever has to follow you; to pay the price, for not being the muse.