Friday, January 7, 2011

An Accident

During Finals week I went out of my apartment to smoke another cigarette. It keeps me awake and focused at night. I went and sat on the walls, the leaves gliding to a halt near my feet as I stretched out to relax. The cigarette dangled loosely from my lips as I looked out. The moon was just rising on the opposite end. I spat on the ground and smoked my cigarette. The smoke played games with the light as even it can leave a shadow. And as I finished it I looked down and stared at the splat my spit had spelled. I stared at it for a full ten minutes. And I thought of the tower of Babel.

I have these thoughts often.

Earlier that day I had wondered what exactly had made God changed the languages of man. My thoughts for that are for another time, but nonetheless I looked at the spit, and then looked at the stub that was left of a spent cigarette. I slowly and firmly placed the stub face down, in the spit. There it stood, my very own tower of Babel. It protruded straight up into the air, as if to sign off on a perfect structure complete.

My time home has been an act of attrition; a hiatus, from a strained fast-paced, and going world. My time home has been little more than a dream. Although the time in Colorado was memorable, the moment hardly was said to have occured at all. We all know how vacations go: "that one time I was in...". Did it really happen? I keep thinking to myself other possibilities. This break has been a hurtful break. I learned that home is right where I left it. With people I learned that I had missed my chance. With books I learned that there is no country out there for people like me. But then again, I'm writing, and I'm writing what I want to write. What else do I need?

According to myself I need a lot, but that's how we all feel right? A sense of entitlement. That's what gets all of us in trouble.

Colorado was cold, and I'm not just being literal. It was cold on my body and cold in my heart. So many people and so many moments I had with them got thrown under the bed when I pressed restart on my life at North Texas. And now that I see them again, my CPU crashed. Time gets away from us.

I heard some things I did not want to hear, and I said some things I did not wish to say. I don't think I would take them back though. I have gone too far to turn back now. Taking things back won't get me what I want.
The day it snowed was absolutely stunning. The hills to the west, which would cover the sun for a large duration of time, suddenly grew foggy that afternoon. Slowly and surely, inclement weather was coming, but it was so quiet. The kind of quiet that you hear in western movies and family trips to backwoods relatives but you just don't hear anymore. No cars, no music, just you, and the wind, and the grass. I looked out and there it was in my face. Snow was everywhere for the next four hours. Snow is white, snow is cold, and snow gets wet.

I ate with punitive and adolescent efficiency. The kind of efficiency that comes from a cynical nature. I ate in silence, listened in silence, stood and looked at songs lyrics in silence. I walked from A to B in silence. I stare at my past in silence, and I sit here in silence. Nothing has changed, and I suppose nothing will change.

Today the sun was hardly there to help me wash the sides of the house. The paneling on my father's house is a quick clean with water and brush. The cold water lapped on my clothes as I climbed a ladder to reach the second floor paneling. Shivers and goosebumps were plenty as I squinted to keep the water out of the fire in my eyes. And after we cleaned we watched a movie. And after we watched a movie, we smoked cigars had a beer. We talked, but I mostly looked at the sky. The sun was casting a red and purple hue on the clouds that hung on the sky from strings hung on the atmosphere.

I want to leave, but I have no reason to leave. I want to stay, and I have no reason to stay. It's a war of attrition. I am blocked by my own guilt, my own expectations, and my own passion.

I want to feel things, and I expect that without a life companion, I never will really fully understand the total worth of all objects in this world. I'm so scared of loving someone else, I think. I don't want to look into someone eyes and say, "I don't have any answers." because I don't. I'm just as scared shitless as the rest of us. I don't know what comes next, but I can't bring myself to ask someone to come with me. I'm no good at burying people alive, even if I'm with them. I guess that is what it all boils down to. I'm alone and I cannot cope with being independent no matter how much talk I put into it. I can't help but feel that I have nothing to offer.

I wake in the morning with cereal, the best thing ever invented by a human being. If I were a machine, then cereal would be the oil. I am an assembly line of vocabulary, and cereal is every Joe and Jane Smith connecting the parts together. And as I wake I read, and play, and work, and wait. And after I'm done waiting, I sleep. The next day I wake and wait all over again. I have spent 21 years of my life waiting, and I do not even know what I'm waiting for: death? Another? A chance?

Time gets away from us.

We're not supposed to use "you" in writing, because it feels like we're calling out the reader, threatening them. Bullshit. I'll call you out right now: what are you doing? Are you like me? Are we not as alone as we think? I'm angry at no one, tired of no one, upset with no one, afraid of no one. Are you the same? I want you to know that everything is going to be alright. With the thousands of advertising hours spent, and the millions of words written, and the hours of movie filmed, they are telling you that you will be alright. I'm doing everything it takes to be happy. I'm taking all the necessary precautions, and making all the right moves. We are going to be okay. You and I will be okay. I give good hugs so I hear.

That night that I was studying. That night I built the tower. Later on I went back out to smoke a second cigarette. It must've been hours later. I turned around the corner of my apartment entrance and felt something touch my foot softly. I lifted my foot, and there it was. My tower of Babel, in all its glory, smashed and bent over backwards on the ground. It was lifeless, and pathetic on the ground. I had crushed my own creation. And I forgot that I had placed it there. It was an accident.

Time gets away from us, I guess.

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