wanderlust
"way to go", was the last thing I heard from her.
it was over, like the proverbial blink of the eye. no closure, nothing. the pain, it was excruciating for a bit, but you know what, it was bound to happen anyway. and I've always wanted to travel.
i was a Sagittarius and she was some other shit. i forget which it was, maybe the crab or the bull, or whatever, but i know now, that we weren't compatible.
how come i didn't know that at first, like right of the bat. what a shame, a real life shame?
she was real pretty though. that part hurts the most, because, well, her personality wasn't as pretty.
days of yesteryear.
the thing is, time evaporates. and this is compounded, unjustly, with the cumulative gathering of it's fleeting essence. so, it's probably best to keep your days completely full, or, just the opposite, floating on a hammock. the middle, you know, that 9-5, clock in clock out, the thing that the entire industrial age was built on. that's the fastest ticket onto the bullet train to older. here in the middle, grey haired the next.
making plans
whenever in doubt
times it by 2
whenever you're sure
times it by 3
because time is not yours to keep
after all, it doesn't really exist
anymore then
that diploma you're holding onto
dot dot dot
three days, out of a routine
and it seems like it will never work again
that blank screen
agonizing
blinking
white
a story-less story
a myth
a trope
loveless as a Bloody Valentine
generation gaps.
“you got some molly?"
“actually no, I don't. back in my day they called it ecstasy.”
“back in your day, you were young. now your old so shut da fuck up.”
“that’s not nice.”
“neither is your face.”
“so mature.”
“yeah.”
“i got coke though.”
“ok.”
pppsssshhhhhhhh.
the noise of the sprinkler was a comfort
white noise, white noise
drowning
drowsy
youth
your ghost.
the full moon frightens me.
i remember that last terrifying night.
that one whispering night. the haunting.
your dead soul.
rummaging for the last morsel.
leaving me option-less.
leaving me hung.
the breath escaping.
the squirming.
that last gasp.
a ghost.
your ghost.
and we're off.
push start
ok
and then
but wait
hold on
we're moving too fast
can i start over
no
is there a pause button
no
ok
shit
lessons hardly learned.
the old man would pull me over and talk to me every time I saw him at the coffee shop. his subjects were often the same, little nuggets of wisdom we're all familiar with.
most of the time it was a nuisance. i would make smiley faces, half understanding anything said, as I kept wanting to get on with life, which is code word for work.
and most grating of all, this ritual kept me away from coffee. i mean, that's the main reason I came, and my cravings would erupt in quiet desperation. i would start resenting everything. why the hell do i do this to myself every damn time? why do i come here knowing this is going to happen with 100% certainty.
but recently, he hasn't been coming in. and life has gotten more uncomfortable without his greetings. and life is never 100%.
the coat of color reddish.
Michelle’s favorite coat was a tint of red. I can get specific about the type of red it was. But, I don't want to. I mean, I'm sure there is an exact name for that red. Like all those goddamn house paints with those silly names you find at Home Depot, or some place as dreadful.
I just know, let's say, I can tell you, non subjectively that it was a hue of red. Or tint of red. What's the difference? I can see that you're already signaling me to “Google” it. But no thanks, I like my world with a bit of mystery. Plus, Google has clocked me watching porn one too many times. iI’s embarrassing and I don’t trust them.
I mean, I get it, all this business about the specific color of a coat, it’s a small detail. But that's what I remember. Maybe that's all I really remember of Michelle. Michelle was a coat to me. A bit harsh, and selfish, and chauvinistic, but, if you're looking for the truth, yeah, that's what sticks out. If you don’t like my feelings for Michelle and her red toned coat, big whoop, sue me Larry H.
We slept around for a bit. Totally causal. She never asked me more then four questions or so. She was a cocktail waitress on the lower east side. Oh, i remember now, it's coming to me. she was pretty cute too. Not a real knockout, but, plenty cute. So, Michelle, cute, reddish coat, minimal talking.
Whatagirl man. Whatagirl.
limits of control.
the woman tried to change her life. one morning, she awoke with an insistent image. it was herself, but refined, elegant, shiny and new. she also looked about 25 pounds thinner.
the woman became ecstatic thinking about this image over and over, every second she could. she was completely obsessed. it was what she had always wanted herself to be. an uptown girl.
the woman was soon full of "vital life energy”; an incantation she learned and repeated 45 times a day from an instructional DVD she bought over the internet. "I AM VITAL LIFE ENERGY" she would scream to herself every morning, at exactly 7am during her morning HOUR OF POWER. she felt “alive for the first time in years”, she told an uninterested co-worker.
she continued signing up for the newest workshops, researched all her food habits, bought the latest motivational books. in a span of three months, she spent $3200 on her new life. but, it “didn’t really count as an expense, because it was an investment”, she told her mother one afternoon at a juice bar.
one day, on her way to work, she witnessed a gruesome accident. a motorcyclist lay sprawled out on the concrete, motionless. Another car flipped over, a body inside, engine running. the sound of that out of control engine terrified her.
she began to sob uncontrollably. she didn't know why, but she couldn't control her emotions anymore. they where running away like that engine. a week of crying was enough! she bought her first book on emotional self control after reading all the reviews online. they were very positive. one customer wrote, “this book will change your life. trust me, it changed mine almost instantly.” she was destined to be somebody else completely.
her weight, her nose, her goddamn ugly shoes, her lack of emotional self control, her stupid honda civic, her back-fat, her frizzy hair, her gossipy and unreliable friends who drag her to T.G.I Friday's on the weekends. yes, she absolutely despised herself.
insta-cowardice.
"why is your face so goddamn dirty", yelled the belligerent man to the one legged woman lying on the street. he picked up her worn out walking stick. he looked carefully at it.
"one more hit and I can own you", he chuckled.
she looked so sad in that moment. her hair disheveled, her clothes in tatters. the princess of dejection.
i wish i could help, i thought to myself. but, I'm too busy taking a sad photo to do anything meaningful about it.
Wells Blog
Duis mollis, est non commodo luctus, nisi erat porttitor ligula, eget lacinia odio sem nec elit. Maecenas faucibus mollis interdum. Nulla vitae elit libero, a pharetra augue.