how could I ever close my eyes, how could I ever turn off my mind, if each image projected onto my eyelids is still you, and it’s 4AM and I’m miles away and you’re sleeping home, dreaming safe, and I’m lying here watching the neon of my clock tick my minutes away, the minutes that don’t matter because you’re not here anyway, tick tick tick, but it’s digital, the ticking’s in my mind, it’s metaphysical. how are you my ghost when you’re alive, how can I miss you when you’re by my side? love lost is not love at all. it’s making me physically sick not to call. but the unknown trumps the unwanted truth. I don’t want to know if it’s no use, for me to base my world on a shaky future, that exists 13% of the time, if I’m lucky, for sure. hey man, get in line. the first time machine is mine.
No, I’m sorry, but DMC went bankrupt. Clocktower didn’t exist, it was always on the backlot. Now I’m backtracking, my heart’s set on flashbacking, and I’ve got my time circuits on with my flux capacitor attacking the infinite futures in which I’m just an analog romantic in a digital situation, no texts, calls, or relations. Ship already set sail, it’s a difficult navigation, where SnapChat’s not a substitute and it’s starting to become a nuisance, to really express my feelings when there’s never an absolution. Your future’s not Parkinson’s, though much love to M. Fox, but his family ties are making you become a has been. I wish I could dream it off, I wish I could sleep you off, I wish I could reap the rewards had I kept you in my life, but now I know it’ll always be me and my total loss.
Hey now, this isn’t a suspension of disbelief. At least there’s a possibility in my reality. Foundations to run back to, and no I’m not trying to attack you. I tried to cold turkey it, I swear I tried to quit. But it’s like picking up a book you left ages ago because you couldn’t handle the ending, except this is a choose your own adventure – finish line, pending. I don’t model my life after any m-fox, Michael or Megan. My only problem’s with the box, and letting the cat out again. Trust me, I’m not a has been; especially when, the universe has only afforded me the flaws of monsters and men. Trust me, I don’t need any lessons alienating people and losing my friends. Though it’s funny you mention my shaky hands, or do you mean my shaky plans? Because I really can’t sign any more leases, the loans on my heartstrings could be my thesis. I’ve spent two years writing about Schrodinger, only to realize I was wrong about Winger. I don’t need DMC to tell me to run, I’ve been marathoning since day one. Okay so I’m not completely innocent, I wish his paternal umbilical cord was spent. I’m not above wishing manipulators into comas, or turning see you laters into temporary homes, ah, well I guess infinity’s not infinity and snapchat and whatsapp aren’t new to me – no it’s not a substitute, but then again what’s the use? There’s no such thing as a clean break, a new beginning. So I might as well keep score, and hope that soon I can go back to winning.
I don’t choose my own adventure, I write my own literature, and I hope I can connect to, but I only further disconnect her. You’re right, she’s not my reality, simulation, or otherwise, and I would know, I’ve run them all with clarity, precision, and love in my eyes; but it’s my demise, and I am truly happy with it. No cold turkey, or Ninja Turtles’ sidekick, the only fox I am is Mr. Fantastic. He was voiced by Mr. Clooney, who’s trajectory I’m following, I bet he’s never had a problem communicating with his sex’s opposite. Facebook purge, I am not familiar with it, though if people get rid of me, I probably wasn’t worth the bandwidth. You keep saying “Trust me,” and I do wholeheartedly, but I fear half-heartedly that you’ll leave me with no-heart-in-me. I was always the box, and the question forever confined in it, but you were the answer to “dead or alive or nonexistent ” I’m no longer wanted, no one gets the bounty; take my name off the milk carton, cats don’t even drink me. I’ve been in the real world for close to a year, and I don’t have a job yet, and I’m told writing doesn’t pay the bills, so I should stop with this bullshit. I’m pretty sure I’ve rented out my flatlined heart twice before, and they’ve only come back broken every time with a ruined safety deposit box down by the shore. She’s become my tabula rasa, I didn’t ask for a clean slate; I was just trying to play for keeps, but she kept keeping score on me–of all the times she laughed and cried, and all the times I made her angry, and all the times I was never there, and all the times I was nowhere else but by her side still feeling lonely.
i could’ve easily told you rent-a-heart’s not lucrative, switch to stealing them, status: fugitive. god i wish my heart would stop beating, that it would stop his misleading, cause each time, it kickstarts my pulse, only to come back again, results? false. i’m forgetting how to talk without drinking, i’m too caught up over thinking. tabula rasa? man there’s a reason latin died, i mean who thinks anything is bona fide? okay scratch that delorean, I don’t need to relive the past again. as long as it’s not a streetcar, because that’s my yellow card. give me a penalty, take him away from me. yelling for stella while depending on the kindness of others? i wish i had their help now. where art thou, o brother? i mean i thought the albatross was mine, when we had a skype date on valentine’s, and i made the cat wait patiently in the other room, if only i knew what i had that soon. same night we watched 500 days of summer, and we thought we had our roles set. you still think i’m zooey? yeah, take a second guess. i’m the hero of the story all right, tmnt off in the night. spare me the opposite of batman fight, both me and gotham need our dark knight. the real world’s overrated, two seasons in new york? both outdated. yeah, fine i’ll admit it. i know all we are is disjointed, or sure, just full of shit. i wish it were that easy – to put his face on the carton and have someone bring him home to me. since when did these cats gain agency? i let him walk into my condo without a key? i’m thinking this is no longer my story. the second i became a carnival prize, some kind of glory. he never learned love’s for two, not three. or four. no wait, you’re right. i’ll stop keeping score. here’s the grand finale – my entire life is a failed pep rally.
Rent-a-heart? Swag’s missing. And Haverford? He was with the worst. I seem to have a thing for them regardless of which show I’m in, and I always wish to be renewed for a new season of me and you, though all of our finales end too soon, cancelled early, with a posthumous following like The Last Tycoon. Cause of death? Involuntary manslaughter, watching our Dundler Mifflin end was the real Scranton Strangler. I’m trying to forget last Valentine’s, but all I can remember is when you resigned. Knowing what you know now, and knowing what I knew then, would you have acted differently? Would you have thrown it all away? I almost did, of me and my dream, of me on the screen, where I’m the writer/director of my own team. I never had a budget, and you want to talk indie work? I’m the Indian Clerks: Dante insecure, and happily a Randall jerk. I grew up in the real world, and it ain’t so scary, though I had the benefit of a quiet suburb in New Jersey. We didn’t have streetcars, I hated being a mallrat, and I never thought I’d fall for Zelda as a tomboy. She wasn’t a Paris wife, that would be the wrong city. She wasn’t in my sights, that would be the wrong country. My scope’s no longer at the ready, even while drones fly nearby, but warfare seems stupid when love’s on standby, because love’s not worth it, because love’s on lockdown, because love’s just jealous that I’m happier without it. So why am I so excited? I wasn’t even invited to join in on the festivities that don’t include me standing atop a wedding cake, or you throwing a bouquet to a crowd of girlfriends I’ve never met, though I’m pretty sure they know me, I’m pretty sure I’m infamous – damaged goods in a ruined dress, now six months later with morning sickness.