six or seven

Chasing down the man in the rose colored glasses, lungs filled with smoke and random aches and pains.
"Hey man," he says "have a seat," and he sits down on a bench in the park.
Dim blue neons crawl across our faces.
"I can't sleep anymore. I feel like I've been awake for a month,"
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm hallucinating,"
"Hallucinating what?"
"Hallucinating everything. Seeing things, hearing things, feeling things."
"Feeling things?"
"Yeah, like aches and pains I think I'm dying."
"That's kind of weird."
"Yeah I know, and I can't tell if it's real or not."
"Well what do you want from me?"
"I want you to leave me alone."
"What makes you think I had anything to do with this?"
"I'm angry all the time, I cant' sleep, I'm afraid of everyone and everything, I think that is covered under your umbrella."
"I suppose that's fair."
"So if you would please leave me alone."
"I wouldn't worry about it."
"Why?"
"Well the old time thing."
"What old time thing?"
"Time is all relative, so this has all happened already, everything has already happened and is happening right now. You're alive in your best moment and your worst moment and being born and dying all at once. So none of this really matters. If it's even happening at all."
"Oh." I didn't really have anything to say after that.

and on and on and on

I feel like fashioning a giant stake to drive through the heart of this week. Rotten Sunday bastard bleeding slow. March. Warm enough to give you a little hope on the breeze but it's still cold.
I want to hire October to kill march.
I feel draining-ly miserable. It's like fucking exhausting.
I also realize I've been trying to describe misery off and on for the last 10 years.
It always feel like a brand new gut shot. Like there's something lurking and you spend the day trying to distract yourself from it but you know it's there but if you don't acknowledge it maybe it'll go away. Of course it's like trying to get through the day ignoring a gunblast to the shoulder, but maybe if you drive around or go for a walk or take off in the middle of the night it'll somehow magically evaporate.
But there's nowhere to go.
I don't want to be here but I can't really think of anywhere particularly better to be. Everything kind of seems sad everywhere I can think of. Can drive around the same old streets or highways sit and stare at the ocean or fantasize about that old midnight jailbreak airplane that'll land me somewhere far away and quiet. Where all the noise will be new. But it's all a fantasy.
I almost did it this week.
Almost.
It's always almost.
Freaked.
Yikes is this turning into a 17-year old's angst-ridden live journal?
I don't' know.
It's a rotten thing being constantly aware of how you sound or what you think or how you feel. Especially when you need to foolishly spout off about it.
Oh Jesus sometimes I can't keep it to myself.
Fucking weak willed ninny.
And sometimes you just aim for tearing everything down in one swing.
Wrecking ball.
Like somehow everything is going to be better on the other side of it.
But it's not. It's not yet anyway.
This'll all fade.
Sooner or later.
It feels like forever right now. I'm at least smart enough, now, to know this moment will get blurrier and there'll be fresh new hells on the horizon.
But that doesn't do a shit ton for me now.
Ugh and then it gets worse.
Then you try to verbalize it or relate it and it just sounds like the most boring minutia that's ever been spun and you realize you're living in some kind of glue trap lined with miserably grim pop songs and you can't tell anymore if they're helping you deal with something or if they're actually dictating how you feel.
But now I gotta figure out how to pull myself out of it.
I don't know how to do that, I thought working on something madly, all through the night would help, but it's still there.
At the very least I think I'm probably done trying to spew nonsense and drivel that sounds like a rational thought about how to climb out of this dizzy sludge pit.
and so on and so on.

Suffer All the Walrye

So I got home from nowhere in particular. It was late and I wanted to go to bed but my ears were ringing and my head had slipped into that weird desperation where every nerve is vibrating and your brain is sunk in some blue cocktail of frustration, confusion and love and whatever other deliberate emotions rear themselves when you can hardly tell if you're awake anymore.
Wow that bed looks good. I just want to drop my head into a pillow and wake up sometime in the future, and I don't mean tomorrow. Who wants to wake up tomorrow to daylight where the world slows down with enough time to analyze and compute and wonder. No not tomorrow, I mean some other era, where all these things have already passed. Some futuristic future world that looks like the future is supposed to look like. Where David Bowie is a prophet and walruses play an important role in everyday life. Maybe they have an ambassador. The Walrus Ambassador. Or maybe people just ride walruses around, maybe the world has sunk into the ocean and the only way to get around is hop on the walrus saddle and glide from glacier to glacier. Maybe the walruses can fly. A future of flying walruses. Maybe it's their time to shine all ruby eyed and white fanged. A world full of red-eyed Walrye gliding underwater, slashing through the skies and worshiping David Bowie.
Or whatever.
RIght now it sounds better than tomorrow.