Apparently you become something else, something new, something powerful and beautiful. I looked down at the pill in my hand, it didn't look menacing, if anything it looked like an opaque vitamin; a little to large to swallow comfortably. The pill didn't feel solid though, it felt more like an oil pill it seemed to morph between my fingers.
I sighed and placed the pill on the table.
"I don't know if I'm ready yet.... I mean if this pill is all its cracked up to be, why isn't it everywhere?"
Monday, January 16, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Answer
The phone rings till the dial tone expires. Then it rings again, this time cut off before it can make a full cycle. He flips the switch on the side and the little icon of a line passing through a stylized bell flashes. It assures him some control, at least technology does what it is commanded to do; silence.
A pen is being passed through his hand, from forefinger to little finger, then back around again. Would you call it stress, would you call it tension or is it boredom?
The pen continues to make it's rounds and the front feet of the chair lift from the ground suspending him in a complex entangle of action.
First the clatter of the pen on the table and then the thud of the chair being thrown back as he stands. Is that nervousness, anticipation?
The phone's vibrations are explicit on the table but he doesn't bother to touch it this time, simply he gets up and walks away from it toward the shower.
"This room is too big for you. Much, much too big, too much brooding space, you should live in a smaller space, yes?"
Who said that? The words are so clear, the voice familiar, so sure, so wise now... The room was too big there was 'too much brooding space'. He pulls the knob out and lets the water run as he strips.
He leaves a piled of crumpled clothes behind as he steps into the water. Crumpled like the expectations on the other end of the phone, crumpled and dirty.
He doesn't bother to masturbate in the shower this time, he's too tired, too wary. From what; phone calls or the rising guilt in his lungs?
He remembers other words, for these he can recall the location.
They were driving, through some complex roundabout story his friend iterates to him another twisted moral "Its not evil not if its kinda what you want or they want or its expected"
It really doesn't make sense, not at all but at the time it did so why shouldn't it now. Can everything done wrong be explained away like that? Maybe.
He remembers laughing in the car and the friend nodding in agreement.
So be it, if anything the bar of soap in his hand can scrub away the dirt he's managed to accumulate.
A pen is being passed through his hand, from forefinger to little finger, then back around again. Would you call it stress, would you call it tension or is it boredom?
The pen continues to make it's rounds and the front feet of the chair lift from the ground suspending him in a complex entangle of action.
First the clatter of the pen on the table and then the thud of the chair being thrown back as he stands. Is that nervousness, anticipation?
The phone's vibrations are explicit on the table but he doesn't bother to touch it this time, simply he gets up and walks away from it toward the shower.
"This room is too big for you. Much, much too big, too much brooding space, you should live in a smaller space, yes?"
Who said that? The words are so clear, the voice familiar, so sure, so wise now... The room was too big there was 'too much brooding space'. He pulls the knob out and lets the water run as he strips.
He leaves a piled of crumpled clothes behind as he steps into the water. Crumpled like the expectations on the other end of the phone, crumpled and dirty.
He doesn't bother to masturbate in the shower this time, he's too tired, too wary. From what; phone calls or the rising guilt in his lungs?
He remembers other words, for these he can recall the location.
They were driving, through some complex roundabout story his friend iterates to him another twisted moral "Its not evil not if its kinda what you want or they want or its expected"
It really doesn't make sense, not at all but at the time it did so why shouldn't it now. Can everything done wrong be explained away like that? Maybe.
He remembers laughing in the car and the friend nodding in agreement.
So be it, if anything the bar of soap in his hand can scrub away the dirt he's managed to accumulate.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
its getting late and i should be working. But i just fucking cant help wanting to get on and just type. Type something, anything at all, my head is drowned right now in a pool of stuffyness and its hard to concentrate on anything at all.
I want to find a way to post short stories on here and poems and things of the such with out archiving them to a date, just a place. I've yet to find out how.
god, i feel like crap at but at the same time i'm on a rush. Life is a series of let downs. Or well it seems that way at the moment. Can't ever be sure. Can't ever be sure of anything at all. I want to work. Seriously, i just ... Egh Can't. I don't feel motivated to do anything at all at the moment. Just sit here and lean back into it.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The first entry
I needed to find a place to archive ideas and journals. some place to blog and share my thoughts with people.
The Irony.
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