Five years of university. Five years of crystalline, antiquated knowledge, stuffed betweene the never-boxed-ears of a poet. Thrice bled, twice unwed, wondering, wandering, analagous to the Shroud of Turin in the obscurtity of its relevance. (There are those who believe it holds great secrets, waiting to be revealed.)
But wait. Let it be, no more, no less, the sublime division-by-zero of learning, the most inapplicable and most corrupted field one could possibly study. Let it be mathematics that I stuff, like cotton, each drink numbing the pain of living two lives into the space between the ears of a poet, into the life of a mediocre, melodramatic medicine-man of living.
I believed every word spoken by Blade Runner's best friend. I am afraid of tears in the rain. I am afraid of falling into a lifetime of comfort. I am afraid of living too much, living too little.
I end up being stuck in the middle. Never quite end up where I was supposed to be. Never quite understood. Every day, we more believe Neitzsche, and more in W. Somerset Maugham. Perhaps i should just settle down, and become a solid cog, a rapidly devolving egg in the grand chicken-embryo cycle of life.
"How's that working out for you, eggie?" He says, my partner in crime, my heir to hair and face of film-space. "How's Michelle doing?" Then he begins moving his arm in a tight spiral in fornt of him, his hand describing an off-kilter circle in the perpindicular to his blue-shirted chest, each spin an equal mockery of my drunken, lumbering dance-step.
I suppose we consider these people we drink with friends, not just because you both know how dangerous it is to divide by zero, but because, in the end, they can take the derivative, set it to zero, and still end up giving you a mathematical contreversy. In layman's terms, they're the doctor of your illness: the best of friends cut through that thick skin and say Exactly the wrong thing. Never understood, indeed. Understood too well for your own good.
And so, I go to class, go to work, go to class, five years of univeristy, a one hour drive between lives, a lie between trying to live too much, and trying to live too little.
A life between the unbearable, a slightly something, sometime nothing, a slightly more than, slightly less than
This is going to hurt like hell.
waiting to escape: The vivid irony of living every day between.
"And you're in math?" He says. I chuckle, send him a little touch of in between. He keeps the second love unwed, beneath his beating wing. I bleed into the page. Hell freezes over. And then I woke up.