At first, I was all ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ, but then she said no and I was like ◔̯◔. A little later it seemed like I could just get away with a ♥‿♥. Boy was I wrong. Now it’s back to ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ. I told my sister about it and all she had to say was ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. I don’t think I can take much more of this. (ಥ﹏ಥ)
I got a new phone.
It asked me
if I wanted
to know what
I would be doing
into the future.
Top 10 List
I have 768
in four days.
snorting Red Dye 40
as an exercise
I called my
I learned that
not only is their
longer in service,
several years ago.
action I could
take to save
to kill myself.
359,160 hours. That’s how long it’s taken me. An elliptical trip I keep repeating around the source of most everything. But I’m not steering this vessel. I’d be hard pressed to get off it even if I wanted to. Do I want to? Honestly, the time passes so quickly I’m not even counting. Each moment is supersaturated with mysteries I could spend a lifetime unraveling. If you peel the onion that is me, you’ll find nothing at the center. If I’m incinerated into ash, it will be the same ash left behind by a burnt log. What is this to you? What is this to me? I can’t say. I started off with the premise that this was all building toward something. To be neatly wrapped up by the shimmery bow of aggregate knowledge. But it’s an unraveling. Each successive picture snaps from behind a lens accumulating scratches and smudges. The order once held by these snapshots effaced by the slip of the hand, scattering the narrative across these well-worn floors. That’s my history now face-up/face-down. 359,160 hours.
You were a story. I was desperate to read you. I needed your words to be spoken inside my skull. I flipped through your pages, my thumb brushing your deckle edges, knowing I’d never have the time to finish. I let my index finger stroke a lone embossed line of letters, symbolic of such a small fragment of your beauty. How I wanted to savor your prose but I gasped in your vowels every time I came up for air. I marveled at your insights, treated the foreshadows like mere clouds passing by, and dog-eared pages with passages to which I yearned to return. To reread. To somehow share with the world. This. This! Beyond the page. Unfettered by language. You.
Inanimate objects can be wonderful listeners. Just the other day I was telling this chair about my psoriasis. And did that chair interrupt my story? Not a once. An animate object–say, a baseball in midflight–would have moved out of hearing distance shortly after I started. A person? Well, they probably would’ve jumped in at the first pause, eager to one-up me with some yarn about a chronic condition much worse. Long story short: Not so hard to find a good listener if you alter your expectations.
The problem was somebody say in the chair I was talking to. Just planted their flabby posterior right down in the middle of my confession. “Excuse me,” I said. Then louder: “Excuse me!” “Oh, oh. I’m sorry. Did you need this chair?” That kind of passive-aggressive politeness really irks me. “Yes. I do need that chair.” In a huff, they waddled to another spot but continued to give snide glances my way every few minutes. When I was finished, I too the chair with me.
Several times I asked if it had any problems to get off its seat. Nothing. Had lived a charmed life, although it did seem grateful to be out of that shitty diner. Some times… well, many times, silence is the best thing to share.
I woke up the next morning to the beeping sounds of a trash truck reversing down the alley. I felt the concrete under my side vibrate slightly before I actually heard the beeping. I peeked out my tarp. The chair had left in the night.
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Essentially, the more you learn… I mean the more knowledge and information you absorb, the wider your perspective becomes on what it is you don’t know. That pool of potential knowledge that you first dipped your chubby toes in has become a veritable ocean.”
Stanley bobbed his head once in abrupt agreement. Joseph continued his soliloquy:
“So, really, the smarter you are, the stupider you become. In a relative sense.”
Stanley wasn’t sure a response was warranted (much less invited). He cocked his head sideways, giving a quizzical look. Joseph continued to be carried away by his own verbal momentum:
“It’s funny. You might have more understanding or a better grip on a topic, but you suddenly realize the depth of your ignorance. It’s astounding.” Joseph smirked, ran some fingers through his disheveled curls, brushed his sandwich remains to the ground, stood up, and turned back to Stanley: “I’ll see you tomorrow, my friend.” Stanley shuffled in that side-to-side way he had of silently saying goodbye. Joseph took the east exit from the park going who knows where.
Stanley continued to stand for a bit enjoying the quiet. Most of what Joseph said was irrelevant, but he liked the cadence of his voice. Whether you’re floating on top of a wading pool or a bottomless quarry, you’re still only touching the surface, he thought. It’s the only place you can breathe. Before he could give this much more thought, he had to claim the sandwich remains for himself lest the other pigeons get ideas of their own.
I’m afraid there’s not much time. Not just for this inconsequential arrangement of words but for you, dear Reader. Just as your heart holds an unknown total of beats so your eyes hold a mysterious limit of words they will read. How tragic if this should be the last of them. Oh, to end on something as common as a noun or even mere punctuation. Run! Run from here now and place thine eyes upon those orderings of letters still praised in the streets. And pray that the last of what you read bestows a thought or word right for reverberating with your spirit throughout eternity.
Unspeak what you have just read and go. Go now!
Lo these two months I have been on the lam. In hiding. Hidden in plain sight. Masquerading as a mower of lawns. Deep under cover as a suburban dweller, dwelling in split-level perfection. Grilling dead cows over burning charcoal as the cat takes the life of small critters in the back yard. My digital empire overgrown with the pixelated moss of non-use. Trafficless content sitting quietly in its poorly lit internet ghetto. How like Ulysses I felt when I barged right back to my dashboard only to find not only did no one recognize me, but I did not even recognize myself; that is, I had forgotten my own password. I suspect all that is suspect. I await for that which requires waiting. Biding my time. Rebuilding quietly…