Just Think.

There are two corners to my left eye's peering view. And to my right, two top pyramids are inverted to their geometric peaks. The walls feel grooved, tense, and wet. My crouched position has given me no feeling in my knees, and on my legs crawl those invisible ants that shrinkwrap my muscles like packaged meat. I sit in this wholly uncompromising position and sit and sit and think. Because I cannot paint myself this conjecture and the reasons behind it. Not anymore can I feel over these grooves in the walls and these splinters which nick me on the way. I cannot sit still nor can I breathe still.

It's times like these that I wish this were more than life. That this was my play, with figurines and plastic tables and such. Where the immovable were movable and where blinking faces no longer needed to bat their fragile lashes. It's times like these where I wish that my eraserface could kiss the faces of people that I needed but couldn't see me in the first place. Where I could blank out their eyes to where their lashes didn't need batting in the first place. It's times like these where I wish the camera reel was batting its transparent lashes, and splices of life came fluttering down in some dark, flashing room--preferably in some place around the back of my brain.

I propose that these corners unpoint, turn their faces, and rethink about what they mean to me, as I will to them. I want these grooves to smooth into something unfamiliar but, yet, exciting and electric and gratifying. It's time for these walls to shift into something new. To morph. Something like a sphere. Something like a dream.

Secrets.

Read on his way to forget everything.
Stayed overnight, inside some harlot play.

Where to go inside this secret place?

Made two calls to a house where no one lived.
Saved two cents to forget the beds he's made.

Pardon My Mess.

I guess you can call me goddamn Holden Caulfield from now on. I just can't seem to get out of whatever spell I fell into. Don't get me wrong, I'm not manic nor am I angry. It's just that my thoughts of home just depress the hell out of me. I can't seem to piece together the pieces, but I guess that history is just a bit of something that could be either creased or grungy or faded. Something that isn't as pretty as it used to be. I can't quite put my finger on it; it's like I've left my house behind and everything inside has become stagnant and lonely. Only it's numb to it now--it's gotten quite the hang of it. Which is something I could never do. And it bothers me till my hair begins to fall out. My family doesn't have a history of balding, but I might be starting a new trend in fashionable toupees if I stay home too long. I love home, I really do. But maybe I just need to start something new. Maybe I'll take up smoking. Or fencing. Something extravagantly insane and unfamiliar. I don't know. For now, I'll stick to incessant blundering and pasty, battered thoughts on something that resembles a beat up, paint stripped clipboard. And blatant lying. Yeah, that's good.

Blank.

I've been quite disenchanted by life lately. So, I've proposed an exodus to somewhere. I don't really know how deep or high or far somewhere is, but I've heard it's nice. Maybe it will be quiet but if not i'll just keep on shuffling. I can't wait to have a feeling again. You know what I'm talking about. Christmas. Cold weather. The opposite sex. Laugh cramps. At the wheel at night, with your friends asleep in the back. I would like to have that back sometime. Hope it gets delivered soon.