I stare at my hand. Blessed or cursed? he says, flipping it over like a sheet of white paper waiting patiently, pouting slightly, wanting to be ripped into snow-white pieces.
Blessed or cursed?
I don't know. Where am I going? The exact same thoughts every time I ride on the bus next to the giant raccoon. Where am I going? The exact same thoughts flight through my mind every time I sit next to the window and look out, looking at myself from outside.
"Is acceptance enough? I don't think so, then what would the next step be? The next circle? Where else do I have to go?"
And then I sit watching the river and the bridges and the cars that rush across like ants seeking food, and the trees that flit by like telegraph poles but instead not handcuffed with heavy weightless lines without too many periods or commas.
Yesterday night I tried to talk in a stream-of-consciousness manner, to sing and to say something that made vague sense. A stream of words rattled out that had to do with a single image. Typing proves to be more rhythmic, providing sufficient pause between words for that single word to appear on the tip of your tongue and to roll off directly away from your mouth into the tips of the fingertips back in some kind of monolithical creation to be born, spewn in rickety-split creations sewn together by CG effects and mythical splash-bang nonsense.
I fear that these thoughts will ferment forever.
I have almost stopped aim or msn, and it has been proving to be so much for the better. I don't plan on using it, or maybe I plan on making separate screennames for family and 'emergency contact' so that five bazillion chat windows won't appear the second I log on. Talking is good, but when it bogs over your life like a smothering down-comforter of cloudy-white, guilt-ridden fog, you need to get rid of it. Away.
I wonder why I keep wanting some sort of music player. An mp3 player, a cd player, minidisc. I wonder. Something to listen while on subways and on buses, walking, during breaks in class, I say, I convince. Why? Why does everything have to be drenched in music? Its like the french toast you make always, sometimes bread is good, sometimes eggs, sometimes milk, sometimes sugar. A soggy dripping mess, cooked and turned into slightly browned french toast is always good, but its a constant smorgasbord, an eclectic dripping mess that relies solely upon its mixture-ness to dazzle, another melting pot.
Washed over. No, I think I want the crisp clear taste of an apple or a glass of milk rather than anything else. Do you see the hidden (not anymore) metaphors in here? I wish you did. I wish everyone did, at one point or another. I wish sometimes, somedays, people knew what we would be talking about and wouldn't have to offer their condolences like dead fish washed up on beautiful perfect beaches. A presence itself can be enough, but when that presence is all packaged up nicely in wrapping-paper and a small bow, then you can't help but stare at the ripped residue of scotch tape floating on clear sky-blue water. I wish sometimes, somedays, that people could know. That they would know what to say the instant they wanted to know, that words wouldn't end in haste reassurances like Meryl Streep saying carefully on shaky ground, "that is what we do" and him watching out the window and smiling. Points that tangent off of small points that I see connecting not at one single point but several points that make multicolored shapes of sense, points that tangent but that cannot be told because I find that we stare at where the lines lead instead of what the lines are. I remember reading one of the Narnia books and first meeting the concept of 'who you are' not being 'what you are'. Starmatter, did he say? Sure, it was a giant religion-ridden metaphor, but we are what we are.
I woke up and went online to find a message from 'heavy metal' about bands and how Limp Bizkit is horrible and how Blink 182 is just a sellout misleading the Youth of America into corporate logos and mainstreamness. That was my day. This is my day. I watched out the window to hear voices, of children playing on rope structures, I listened to people whispering their lives out from the heart, through the carbon-laden speakers of my computer. I read people's lives, how they lived, how they cheated, how they changed, and I could go on and list verbs that contradict each other saying that we love and we hate and we kill and we live, but it doesn't work unless you can feel everything at the same time.
Unless you can step out and watch from above. I cried today for the speaker who knew naught about what he was saying, about the painter who didn't care what he was painting. I remember Friend saying in a hopefully nostalgic tone of voice about how this could be a short story. Self-nostalgia for the current moment, he called it. I remember how I wish I had a Dedalus of my own, and I wonder why this constant analyzation keeps on to talk about 'what was the author thinking of?'. What if you have no author? What if you have no omniscient creator who plots things out conveniently like a well-positioned connect-the-dots game? What if these events are just the result of a another pebble tossed in a pond? What if? Would you keep on watching and caring and analyzing? Would the world make any difference if it was real or not? Does it matter? Do you feel that someone else like you is living outside of you, looking behind and above and below you while the real person in you can't help but look out of static eyes, watching 'static teenagers in love'?
Sunlight is slowly making its way through the vertical curtains of my balcony. I leave.