Sympathy for the Timeless

Yao Ming. Kareem Abdul Jabbar. Walekum Salaam. I think that went too far. I’m being told only one of those is a proper greeting. It’s okay, I’m allowed, not like anyone’s reading.

I feel bad for the kids of Jehovah’s, witnessing around the block when it’s really cold out, when they could be at home watching Saturday cartoons or, playing outside, instead of walking door to door with their folks. Um, I’m afraid of change, and being forever alone. My BBM still lists me as “Ani on Jas’ Phone.” That’s podcast humor, that’s not relevant. Neither is Phoenix Jones, who pepper sprayed, and off to jail he went. Do I talk about my childhood, or lack of friends growing up, or do I save all that, for a failed stint at stand up? I wish I had a helicopter camera. I wish I could’ve had my arms around her, and not just because of some stupid sketch from two years ago, but because I just wanted her to know I was there for you. You’re the reason they take pop rocks and turn them into sad songs. You’re the exception to why Oscar Wilde will always be wrong. I didn’t need a mask for truth. Sure we had meta, but I didn’t need it to talk to you. I got more mileage out of Benjamin Button than Fincher ever did. No Oscars sure, but it was nice to have met you when I did. In the middle of our lives, you were yet another Daisy to strive for, and ultimately lose to time, or to “Quote the raven, [I had you] ‘Nevermore.'”

There’s a tie hanging on my door, but it’s not what for what you’re thinking of. It’s for celebrating past successes, and future fuck ups. This is my swan song: no more an ugly duckling. This is my dreamscape: you wanted nothing to do with me. This is my reality: I hope there are no hard feelings. I’ll spend the rest of my life singing hybrids, taking pieces of my heart and putting them under my bed, hoping the heartbreak fairy takes them and finally puts this tale to an end. Didn’t think I could fit my whole heart onto a computer screen? Some things are better left unsaid, but that’s pointless if you know what you mean to me. I’ve got a t-shirt from every school that I went to, except Hartford, where there’s a D.A.R.E. shirt people wrote on the back of that I’m gay. With a sharpie. That shit’s permanent. Sometimes I wish we were true, sometimes I wish you weren’t. You buried me alive like the Bride, and made my heart explode like Bill, yet you weren’t mine, but I was always yours for the kill. “That woman deserves her revenge?” I’m the villain, I deserve to die, and not Jewie out of paying my comeuppance, or try to run away from a past people will say was wasted once. Ring the bell. Clean out the office. I’m finished, no more evil spells. Speak now or forever hold your peace. This is my failed attempt to try to achieve it, a world without meta parallels, and meta hells, and paradise lost’s and paradox found’s. I used to be trending, now I’m a hash tag for has beens. Get it all out now, we ain’t coming back to this again. Into a world of fiction it shall be forever confined, and never spoken, forever broken.

Stars and their shine. Distant and divine. Been a while since I looked up, and truly called you mine. I never called you mine. Now I’m running out of time. Time to hit the button and rewind, because our past’s about to unwind, and our future’s about to intertwine? More like unravel. I hope you like time travel. It’s a battle, real fragile, shooting stars and killing assholes. Bang. Sympathy for jugni. Sympathy for history. Sympathy for villainy. Sympathy for simply trying to be the best me. People tell me that I’m full of crap, that if I don’t stop soon, I’ll probably become the Taylor Swift of rap. We don’t have a lot in common, she’s had variety. Though I guess we’ve both tried and failed to be a Kennedy. JFK gets CGI’d and your results may vary.) But you know what’s truly scary? That I sang this song in June, and it’s still kind of in tune, with my mood and my mind, even six months down the line? Shit. Ross said stay scheming, SoulFelix said stop fleeing, and she said keep dreaming? I’m just a jackoff, that keeps believing. It’s a fruitless endeavor. It’s a movement together. I’m lost forever, but never with whoever, and there’s no such thing as clever. I don’t control the weather. It’s finally time to sever. Because you could do better. But trust me, it’s been a pleasure.

“Look me in the eyes. Tell me you’re not in love with me.” / “I’m not in love with you.” See? It was just that easy. No need for drama, no “As Seen on TV.” My imagination’s closer to me than you’ll ever be, stuck with abstract dreams of mundane fantasies, talking for hours about arbitrary life shit–hypothetical futures with hypothetical subsets–that between you and me lies no between us, because I was open to coalesce, but you were in a wedding dress. “You’ve ruined my life.” / “You’ll get over it.” She walked in, and asked for a Belmont King Silver. No one bought those, I thought, but hey, I hardly work here. So I twirled it on my fingers before I finally set it down, only to see her reflection on the counter, her smile was now a frown. “That’s regular,” she said. I’m regular. I toss the pack over my shoulder to try to evoke a laugh. She just stares, her eyes register only incompetence back. She pays by debit, never once making eye contact. I’m left holding the receipt, and I wrote all this on the back of that. Outside, she lights up, and sets her coffee on the ice machine. Now I’m melting, go ahead, and blame it on the nicotine. All the good ones are smokers. All the best ones are taken.

What started out the week as just a song, about a sad and happy faced emoticon, turned into a leap of faith so strong. Long awaited, yet perhaps never fully stated, but all that’s slowly changing, at the stroke of midnight. Celebrating fake holidays and monumental occasions, of made up words and glances across a table–at those eyes, at that smile, and at that slight hesitation. Only one of us will truly know, and it’s hard to imagine, Britta and Abed? Only time they’re together was in “Dungeons and Dragons.” Roll reversal. It’ll probably hurt more. But that’s all you had to say to me, and I never should’ve told you things. It’s just eyeliner. You were a skyliner. I was a writing whiner trying to be your headliner. When that’s Drake’s job, I think he’s from the area? You never heard of him? I wish I never heard of ya. Changing names unfortunately doesn’t change pasts. It took a few years, but I wish I had thought of that. Sooner. For your sake. For my namesake. For our mistakes. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t my place. Luck had nothing to do with it oye, I was just misguided by those eyes like a foolish boy.

“No! They expect one of us in the wreckage, brother!” / “Have we started the fire?” No, I extinguished it, the bane of her existence. I needed my own Alfred, to tell me that it was all a myth. I wish I could get drunk, drive my car off a bridge, and wash up in a town where no one knows who me is. That’s the premise of The Majestic, but damn it, they keep telling me, you’d have been better off not doing podcasts, sketch shows, or reports done weekly. I’m a weakling. Everything I did and thought was mine was all tied back to someone’s heart. It was delusional, illusional, and you thought I was making art? It wasn’t smart. It was juvenile and stupid, to put myself all out there, just so Cupid could find us, amid “too dark, too negative,” and other stuff we never did, and other things we never said, on rainy days with takeout. I’m the constant. I was always there. I’m the box that, if the cat’s dead or alive, is always spare. Forever discarded, forever scarred yet, I know you’ll move on, because I never registered a class act. I was an asshole, a douchebag, a jackass who couldn’t act. I could only write. I could only be loud. I never really saw you covered in that shroud, of silent tears, of unmet glances, of numerous chances given after failed advances. Stop humoring me, I know I’m not worth it. Take my chapter in your life, and edit it. Page break. Cliffhanger. About the author? It doesn’t matter. Format. Works cited. Sources? Don’t fight it. I’m history. We’re gumrah ajnabis, that’s “lost strangers” in Urdu/Hindi. Take your pick. We don’t mix. Only thing left to do is go back to the beginning and, find a nice field that’s ripe with forgiveness and, take out the watch and make sure we know who we’re dealing with, and point and shoot, and don’t forget to throw the looper’s gun away. What’s the past us? It’s all past us. There’s no future us, There’s just an island I can never go back to, but I can leave you, my dear albatross, and my ship’s crew. Confessions of a time traveler, I’ve set the DeLorean on the tracks, waiting for the train to arrive, to hit me back, and send me back, and mend me back.

There’s a joke here.

— Jihad on Kwrismukkah