coffee

+a purpose+
I am supposed to show people that there is still good in the world.
Of course, subsequently, I have to show them that I am not the good.
They had it inside themselves all along.

+rant+
He fell in love every day. Anything, anyone beautiful, and it was on his mind. It hurt, but it wasn't bad. Usually quick, rather pointless. There could have been something to it, something important about it, but he didn't care. He just let it happen. The beautiful girl in the flowing skirt… here and gone. The bricks making the building… well, they would be there. He could become infatuated with them when he pleased. The eye contact really killed him. It would plant this seed… extreme interest, immediate interest. The hope of a smile. He never wanted to be in love, but he always wanted to fall in love. He knew that, if it started, it would end badly. Yet, he wished for it. Every day.

She was drunk. Really drunk. Probably stoned and drunk. He was ready for bed, but she had some sort of trip in mind. He went along. For the beer, really. Not the company. Not the conversation. Definitely not for the better.

He wanted someone that could match him. In everything. Blood alcohol content level. Determination. Depravity. Dry wit. Conversation and accommodation. We suppose he just needed to meet himself, somehow. Ideally, he couldn't have what he wanted. Ideally, he should never attain what he wanted. Having it meant his birth and his demise, and every speck of dirt in between, staring him in the face. Challenging him for all time to accomplish what he had already done.

He was lost in an idea… a day dream of running through the woods. He had never ran this fast before. He felt a pressure to run. Something unknown was propelling him. The woods smelled damp and dirty. The woods smelled right. He was pulling down a tree. He was making something. There were splinters everywhere.

He was driving. The camera kept glancing at him, and then out the front window, and then back at him. Everything was a blur. He was going fast. It was twilight. There was loud, hectic music. He kept glancing around… looking up at the sky through the front window. It seemed as though only a chorus of voices could begin to tell his story.

There was a book on the shelf that talked about how news today did such a good job in passing off complete bullshit for legitimate news. Was this the definition of irony? You've written a book exposing mass media as smut peddlers…is this the joke? Some one is talking about what mass media is talking about…. It seemed to him to be feeding the fire.

The town was rotting. There were kids who were supposed to be enjoying life and figuring things out, and instead they were fucking text messaging and trying to keep up on trends. They could have set them. The adults that were supposed to be in their prime were working overtime or sitting on the couch, getting fatter and fatter. They were huge. Then you had the old women… the trophy wives, with stretched-out faces, from sucking dicks and plastic surgery, wearing playboy-brand clothes and trying to look twenty years old again. They didn't fit in anywhere, really. It was fun to watch, this town, but it was nauseating to think about.

He fell in love again. He wanted to parade her around town, he wanted to take her to the most beautiful places, he wanted to amaze her. He wanted to make love to her. Passionate love with lips and eyes locked together. Multiple-orgasm love. Ha.

It was strange. He felt strong urges to come into contact with these people. He felt like he should know them and love them all… but he never wanted to meet them. He never wanted to meet anyone. He hated meeting people. Awkward conversations… meeting one person at a time was most desirable. Meeting friends simultaneously… that was the worst. Putting up with subtle sideways pissing contests, intentional disinterest. Complete bullshit, really. Meeting someone genuine and polite and original felt like a fucking dream.

Reality blended with dreams blended with memories blended with ideas. He couldn't remember if he had told them, or wanted to tell them, or had already told them, or dreamt of telling them. Sadly enough, almost every time, he had already told them. That happened every day.

He felt like he was supposed to be doing something important. Like he was waiting for some sort of something to align…. He didn't know what he had to do, but he knew he would when the time came. He felt like he could really show somebody something if the opportunity presented its self… but the opportunity prevented itself, rather. Nothing good ever came of hoping.

He wondered what good came of reading in to things…

Tear the flesh
Desires mesh
Push it in
Scar the skin…

Excerpts from a journal made of excerpts from every day life…

Push it in
Scar the skin
Lights go dim
And breath gets thin…

He sang. He sang loudly. He sang all the time. Probably too loudly, really. Mostly when he was driving, he would really sing. Cycling through songs until he found one with a few decent vocal parts. It cheered him up. Gave him something to look forward to.

He wondered why it was the children tried to act out situations that, later in life, would bring them amazing amounts of stress. Things like 'playing house', or 'war'.

It killed him all the time. What was she thinking about… Really thinking about… While they had sex. Or fucked. Or whatever. What was it in the back of her head that she saw when she closed her eyes. Who was it. The problem was, it could have been anything. It was everything. It was all of the same things she thought of while the ate or talked or slept. It could have even been him.

Chances were, the more he tried to tip-toe around things, the louder and harder he just stomped through them. But that's how things worked. He would always deal with them, one way or another. Everything came out even in the end. Rivers all went to the same place… there she was. She was strangely beautiful… He wanted her to like him, to be interested in him. But she just walked around the corner… gone again. We all end up dead and rotten. Anyone can believe anything. They can think that they'll be in heaven, and all their dogs, and grandparents, and goldfish, they'll all be there. Which is true. For them. You'll get to where you're going regardless.

+sleep+
He never remembered going to bed. He was constantly coughing from passing out with the windows wide open. He drank more than ever. It only seemed right. He didn't need to drink, but he liked it. Mostly. He just never remembered going to bed. He would wake up and look around and realize he was in bed. And it would be a good start to the day.

'at least I know…', he would think. At least he didn't have this delusion that he was some sort of mean mother fucker. He wasn't. He knew he wasn't going anywhere. Not like them. These boys that would wander around town smoking cigarettes and driving their cars with music blaring. Who were they kidding? At least he could stare it in the face and come to terms with the fact that he wouldn't be going anywhere. Not any time soon.

At least his death wish would come true.

He felt like he was doing everyone else a favor by not lashing out. By not knocking over the precariously-balanced displays in the stores. By not punching out car windows. By not verbally harassing anyone who looked at him sideways. By not sabotaging chairs to fall apart when someone went to sit in them. By not writing things on the walls that, when read, would make you wonder what the hell you were doing in life. Where it all was going. He was probably only doing himself a favor, but he felt righteous.

He liked to watch people. He liked to be looked at, but never watched. He felt awkward being watched. He felt like he owed some sort of acknowledgment if someone was watching him work, write, draw, create. He didn't know what to do. Sometimes he just wanted to turn and look at them 'til they left him alone. He didn't want to be mean about it, but he never knew what to do.

He didn't fall in love that day. He might have lusted after one or two things, but there was no love… maybe it didn't happen every day. Maybe it was every two or three days. Which could have been a day if you looked at it right. Perhaps, if you consider the fact that everything blurred between memory and dream and reality, then three days really turned out to be one day. Maybe a week was a day. One long day.

He felt it constantly. This longing for a return to something. He wished he could go back to being blissfully unaware of things. Part of him wished it, anyways. There were great things to be had when you were aware of yourself and your surroundings, but there were also horrible things. Painful and silent and drawn-out things.

He always wanted to just grab the confused, 'cool' kids, shake them around, and start asking them what the hell they were thinking. Or rather, why they weren't thinking. He always talked about what he wanted, but he never did anything.

They didn't hate each other. They really didn't. they just didn't know how else to feel. Once you've gotten along for a long time and you're ready for a change, there's nothing left to do but get irrationally, inexplicably pissed off at each other. It was horribly immature, and it was horribly effective.

It wasn't the life that he wanted. Sitting in some 'cute' apartment, feeling the dirt under his bare feet that you couldn't help but track in, what with the hardwood floors. Worrying about your neighbors, above and below you. And a land lord… fucking land lords. Having to search for parking… hell, he didn't even want a car. Or a job. Or bills to pay or neighbors to be nice to. Or a room to keep clean or even a room mate to deal with… listen to… look at…

He couldn't help but think about it. He didn't think of it often, but he always thought of it. Halfway around the world, there were kids his age in a sort of voluntary purgatory. Mass media reported on celebrities getting in and out of jail… hard-hitting journalists interviewed movie stars and millionaires… this was the cutting edge news.

He thought of his parents some times. It was hard to think of them and not laugh. They were the couple that was 'staying together for the kids'… They set quite the example. He always wondered what they would do when they were old and their daughter was leaving the house… Start dating again while they're both nearing sixty? Would his mom finally move out? Would she pay expensive rent for a shitty place by the beach and work a full time job? At sixty fucking years old? He thought of old couples and he thought that they were probably together because they enjoyed each others company, mostly. His parents wouldn't be together… they shouldn't have been, at least. He knew it was him that caused his fathers resentment, but he was ok with it. There was nothing to be done about it now. That was probably why he never could make plans. Because he never knew what would be happening the next day. He didn't have it in him to set himself up and work hard for something only to have to re-establish and re-create your over-all goal thanks to a whim. And maybe it was for the better…

He could hear the tires throwing water across the road. It smelled wet. Not like wet asphalt… It had been raining for too long for the smell to be around still. It was just wet and mildly warm. He heard tires sliding, slipping, screeching across the road. An old beater of a Trans-Am came screeching, tipping, now falling over onto its roof… The roof caved in… glass shattered and bounced across the ground. The car slid to a stop. There was a crack of lightning, but no thunder… it never came. A man pulled himself out of the car. He was pale, with black, straight hair. He was wearing dress pants and a black dress shirt and suspenders. His arms were tattooed and on top of the tattoos were fresh cuts from the crash. He crawled a little ways from his car and got up on his hands and knees. He was quiet and calm. He sat on the ground, picking glass out of his hands, getting soaked in the rain and the blood. He was beautiful. It was romantic.

Ideally, he could watch the sun rise every morning and then sleep until the evening… the light was most beautiful in the morning hours, before the sun crested over the horizon and cast defined shadows, extreme contrast over everything. Maybe he would paint, or take pictures. He could write all night, watching cars drive by and lost souls wander through streets. Paint in the sunrise, and then sleep, almost satisfied.

He started a list. It named the film and the exact times of all the montages in the film. It was only the best montages. He would eventually compose them all in to one seamless, continuous montage of montages. It would be the best of the moments in film that convey feelings without words. It would say everything without speaking. It would be a sensory overload. It would be perfect.

A lot of the time, he hated the thought of sex. Of girls thinking that they were doing someone a favor by fucking them. Of guys being nice to girls and lying to them just to fuck them… apparently, he hated how people acted about sex. He enjoyed the actual sex part. Mostly.

+together one against all others+
The sex sort of ruined it. Although it was the ultimate goal, the sex demeaned the rest of the relationship. It was beautiful. It was other-worldly. It was ethereal. And the sex made it so fucking human… so materialistic and easy to relate to. He never wanted to fuck her again. Ideally, it would go; courtship, stand-off, succumbing, excess in every way imaginable, faster, faster, faster, until the bloody climax. Killing each other with knives and bites and kisses. No copulation.

+thanks+
He prolonged it. He liked to procrastinate, tease, go off on tangents, change the subject… anything to build up a bit of anticipation…

She didn't even know what she was missing. What she could have had. She would have had to wait, but not for long. Not for long at all. It would have been on the counters, the tables, the walls… On the bathroom sink in front of the mirror… It would have been eccentric and random and entirely unpredictable. It would have been perfect.

He stared at her. How could he not? She was amazing. Really. She was. He wanted to love her no matter what. He wanted to walk up to her and thank her, with all his heart, for not walking around town, being as beautiful as she could be, breaking the hearts of men, women, and children everywhere. For not ruining lives. For not giving the obsessive one more terrible, tragic thing to obsess over. He wanted to thank her, on behalf of everyone, everywhere, for giving some one something to live for. He wanted to thank her for brightening his day… his week. His month. He wanted to thank her for giving him something amazing. He walked up and said "hi…"

He was mad at her. He loved her, and he meant it when he said it. She said it back. Sometimes she said it first. But that was all that happened. She just said it. He never felt it. In fact, he probably felt a sense of obligation coming from her more than anything. It embarrassed him. He wondered why he kept opening up to her when the results were the same. Always.

Dogs depressed him. They just sit and watch and wait for their owner. The owner was their God, right there, in the flesh. And the owner was always a let down. Infatuation lead to appreciation, but quickly enough, all feelings gave way to obligation. When they were puppies, they went everywhere and were loved by everyone. A short time later, they were left at home, alone. They were there so children could learn to cope with death. They should have been wild forever. He had a festering fear of becoming domesticated.

+a fire inside [and out]+
These days, no one could afford to be romantic. There was a war on in every corner of their society. Whether it was created for a market boom or….. created for a market boom. It tore lives apart. Don't get married. Don't be in love. Don't even have friends. When you get called off to go make that market boom, no one cares who you knew or loved. He thought he might know why he despised plans and cried for those who made them.

There was a fire on that year. One hundred and seventy-three homes and rising. A national crisis. Not unlike said war… only… this had more media coverage. This and some whore of a celebrity serving legitimate jail time.

He remembered… he remembered playing catch with his father. Yes… he used to play catch with a baseball or a football with his father. His father wondered why he didn't play anymore. The son knew. The son remembered that, every time he would go to the bathroom or go get a drink of water and beg his dad to wait… "Just wait… Don't go anywhere… I'm just getting water…. I'll be right back… Don't leave… Promise?"… Every time, he would come back from his three minute excursion and find his father watching sports on T.V. What was there to wonder about?

+heart+
She danced. She danced for the attention. She wanted to pretend otherwise, but deep down inside, she knew it was so people would look at her. There was a song on about breaking hearts and breaking material things. She danced for the material things. Nothing else. It made her feel ok about herself, to know that eyes were watching her. She liked the feeling that boys would fuck her no matter how much of a bitch she was. She danced, and instead of looks, she felt love.

+sweat and smoke+
The knife was old, dull, rusted… It was long and it looked like you could have stepped on it every day for a year before noticing it. It was a perfect weight. Not like a throwing knife. More like a holding knife. It felt good in your hand. You weren't even sure if you wanted to sharpen it or not. He did, but you couldn't decide. Something about it being a ragged piece of metal had an appeal to it. Like when you didn't wash your hair or your pants for a month. It looked like shit, and you knew it, and they knew it, and they knew you didn't care. At all. You knew that this was a knife that you could use. That you could really fucking use. This wasn't a beautiful knife that you wanted to preserve and never dull. This was your filthy, scary, but reliable and trustworthy friend. Not your beautiful, useless friend. This knife wasn't easily concealable, which made total sense. If you were going to use it, you were going to use it, and it didn't matter who knew it.

Her lipstick matched her bandana. She looked like the kind of person who was comfortable with explosives, drinking, and domestic disputes. She looked just right.

She believed in karma and reincarnation and manifest destiny. It seemed to him that the more things she claimed to know about and believe in, the more confused she became. It seemed to him that the things she preached were not the things she practiced. Material goods meant too much to her, while honoring herself and others was too far down the list.

He stared out the window…
He heard biblical choirs, fires, and hymns
Saw terrible liars, crying, and sins
The skies black and smoky, the clouds dropping rain
Spitting and choking through manifest pain
In it was beauty, in it splendor torn
It imbibed his belief that he was the thorn
He slept in leaves under the smoke
It all felt better once it broke
No rigorous standards or child-like rivals
Just people and persons working for survival

There was a bond there that everyone could see, but no one could know.