I feel so heavy
I feel like iron, and it’s oxidizing so fast that I can’t cleanse it before it surrounds me, before it collapses every good thing I’ve ever tried to do. 155 pounds for six years, but my soul feels like thousands. You drop me into the ocean and I would sink. I would sink so fast you would only get one last glimpse at the top of my head before the navy blue fringe bleeds my skin invisible. And there I’ll sit, until some scuba diver hundreds of years later realizes what they left behind. I feel like the clogged air filter, and when you shake me, dust and muck and filth fly out and it’ll make you turn away and cough and gag. Everything I’ve done is collected and gathered and is never forgotten. No one ever forgets, and I never forget. It’s not hard to be in history, because everyone remembers everyone.
I feel like I’m on the social teeter totter. So many friends and so many beliefs and so many wants and desires that every move I make will lessen my friendship with one and gain it with another. I feel so dangerously destructive I wonder what makes me able to even go out into the playground. Propaganda floods my mind and I wonder where to go. The Corporation is nothing but greedy, but the environmentalist wants you dead anyway. Light on topics and history cascade through the North Texas roof and burn out any attempt at opinion. You’re left as another computer, reciting text you thought was your own when it is nothing more than regurgitated statistics and plot points. I’m just as guilty as the next man, and I have nothing to show for it.
I surround myself with cynicism, and it’s slowly destroying any hope of a good life. I seek to steal what is not mine, and if I’m not satisfied, I criticize you for ever making any choice in the world.
I am terrified.
And I have no excuse. The golden generation had World War II, the next had Korea, the next Vietnam and the 70s, and here I am. So much plenty. Laptops, cell phones, face book, time, parties, drawings, movies, paintings, “social lives”. I have no excuse.
Will the world ever know what sacrifices Colton Royle made in his life? No, because he made no sacrifices, and he never took the initiative. He IS the teeter totter, carrying with him anyone who wants to grasp for the middle way, for compromise.
Matter. We are all it, and surrounded by it. It can be bent to your will with the right tools, but it can’t be created or destroyed.
No one ever forgets.
Is history matter? Can it weigh down the teeter totter? Can it save a man from sinking? Is history created or destroyed, or is it just a regurgitation? Is it a concentrated and gathered rerun? Am I no different from any man who walked this Earth? I’m just as awful, and heavy, and I’m sinking just as fast. Gravity will take over and everything I’ve thrown in the air will come crashing down around me. All I’ve done with this terrible cynicism is hurt anyone and everyone.
I’m the perpetual interrogated man who cracks at the breaking point. Either no man, or every man feels like I do. The law abiding citizen that will eventually break every law, because of the absolute knowledge that nothing is absolute. I am condemned at anyone’s discretion and am subjected to anyone’s punishment. I am essential to no one and everyone; to the public good and to myself at the same time.
How do you divide that? How is the matter divided? How is a law subjected to the dividing destruction of human perspective?
I want Radiohead to play at my funeral. I want Regina Spektor to hold and tell me “it’s alright” when “I never ever saw it coming at all.” I want Ayn Rand to hold evidence that everything I do is okay. I want travel back to the 1960s and meet Don Draper. I want to be an architect, I want to run a railroad. “I’m the Hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved.”
Charging the phone, charging the laptop, charging the mind
Glasses and contacts, pens and pencils, music and movies, life and death.
Matter and anti-matter
There’s a drawing of a child on a boat in my room, and forever he will stare out to the right of the page. The two dimensional child. The boat will never move, the child will never blink. He will be infinite.
And I will leave him to his forever fate. I will move on, to something else.
Matter and anti-matter.
No one ever forgets.
Really. People always seem to remember the early hat throw of Colton at graduation.
Neither created nor destroyed. What does it mean? Equal trade? The teeter totter? History? It certainly seems to have nothing to do with me.
And yet here I am. Nowhere and everywhere. Created, and destroyed. Matter and anti-matter, history and re-run. And I feel so heavy.
I feel like iron, and it’s oxidizing so fast that I can’t cleanse it before it surrounds me, before it collapses every good thing I’ve ever tried to do. 155 pounds for six years, but my soul feels like thousands. You drop me into the ocean and I would sink. I would sink so fast you would only get one last glimpse at the top of my head before the navy blue fringe bleeds my skin invisible. And there I’ll sit, until some scuba diver hundreds of years later realizes what they left behind. I feel like the clogged air filter, and when you shake me, dust and muck and filth fly out and it’ll make you turn away and cough and gag. Everything I’ve done is collected and gathered and is never forgotten. No one ever forgets, and I never forget. It’s not hard to be in history, because everyone remembers everyone.
I feel like I’m on the social teeter totter. So many friends and so many beliefs and so many wants and desires that every move I make will lessen my friendship with one and gain it with another. I feel so dangerously destructive I wonder what makes me able to even go out into the playground. Propaganda floods my mind and I wonder where to go. The Corporation is nothing but greedy, but the environmentalist wants you dead anyway. Light on topics and history cascade through the North Texas roof and burn out any attempt at opinion. You’re left as another computer, reciting text you thought was your own when it is nothing more than regurgitated statistics and plot points. I’m just as guilty as the next man, and I have nothing to show for it.
I surround myself with cynicism, and it’s slowly destroying any hope of a good life. I seek to steal what is not mine, and if I’m not satisfied, I criticize you for ever making any choice in the world.
I am terrified.
And I have no excuse. The golden generation had World War II, the next had Korea, the next Vietnam and the 70s, and here I am. So much plenty. Laptops, cell phones, face book, time, parties, drawings, movies, paintings, “social lives”. I have no excuse.
Will the world ever know what sacrifices Colton Royle made in his life? No, because he made no sacrifices, and he never took the initiative. He IS the teeter totter, carrying with him anyone who wants to grasp for the middle way, for compromise.
Matter. We are all it, and surrounded by it. It can be bent to your will with the right tools, but it can’t be created or destroyed.
No one ever forgets.
Is history matter? Can it weigh down the teeter totter? Can it save a man from sinking? Is history created or destroyed, or is it just a regurgitation? Is it a concentrated and gathered rerun? Am I no different from any man who walked this Earth? I’m just as awful, and heavy, and I’m sinking just as fast. Gravity will take over and everything I’ve thrown in the air will come crashing down around me. All I’ve done with this terrible cynicism is hurt anyone and everyone.
I’m the perpetual interrogated man who cracks at the breaking point. Either no man, or every man feels like I do. The law abiding citizen that will eventually break every law, because of the absolute knowledge that nothing is absolute. I am condemned at anyone’s discretion and am subjected to anyone’s punishment. I am essential to no one and everyone; to the public good and to myself at the same time.
How do you divide that? How is the matter divided? How is a law subjected to the dividing destruction of human perspective?
I want Radiohead to play at my funeral. I want Regina Spektor to hold and tell me “it’s alright” when “I never ever saw it coming at all.” I want Ayn Rand to hold evidence that everything I do is okay. I want travel back to the 1960s and meet Don Draper. I want to be an architect, I want to run a railroad. “I’m the Hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved.”
Charging the phone, charging the laptop, charging the mind
Glasses and contacts, pens and pencils, music and movies, life and death.
Matter and anti-matter
There’s a drawing of a child on a boat in my room, and forever he will stare out to the right of the page. The two dimensional child. The boat will never move, the child will never blink. He will be infinite.
And I will leave him to his forever fate. I will move on, to something else.
Matter and anti-matter.
No one ever forgets.
Really. People always seem to remember the early hat throw of Colton at graduation.
Neither created nor destroyed. What does it mean? Equal trade? The teeter totter? History? It certainly seems to have nothing to do with me.
And yet here I am. Nowhere and everywhere. Created, and destroyed. Matter and anti-matter, history and re-run. And I feel so heavy.
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