Arctic Hysteria (Also Known As Post #200)

This is not what you want. This has never been what you want. Life has never really been what you want, except for selective instants of brief illumination. Why would you desire any of this? The death? The tears? The anxiety?

Truth be told, you just want a picture of yourself holding a guitar and smoking a cigarette in grayscale. All you want is to watch one more movie that makes you cry. To buy a game and not move from the couch for six hours. To live long enough to read your favorite book aloud to your kids. To find someone to talk to every day about stuff that you actually care about. To write something you feel good about again. To draw something that you feel good about again. To read a book that feels right again. To sing a good song. To hear a perfect song for the first time.

You just want to attempt suicide and be driven to a hospital and wait to see who comes to visit so you can actually know that they care about you. You want to drink drain cleaner. To be noticed by someone again. To be ignored. You’re seconds away from veering left and crashing your car into a tree. You want to think about something positive again. To think of puppies and kittens and those tiny rodents you like so much. You want to laugh sincerely and not frown after. You want to stay positive throughout an entire day.

This is what I want. Probably what you want. Possibly what everyone wants. Maybe you just need a haircut. To lose the beard. Exercise more. Take a hot shower. Eat better. Study more. Read less depressing books. Write more often, even if it´s shit. Stop eating ice cream, since you´re lactose intolerant. Stop yourself from thinking everyone is an idiot. Lose a couple dozen pounds. Make more muscle. Go out to night clubs. Finish college. Become an active member of society. Marry someone you think is just OK. Have a couple of kids. Have stressful days and normal days and outstanding days. Celebrate birthdays and anniversaries with routine parties. Get a stable job. Buy a house. Bury your parents. Move to a different town. Bury your friends. Work until you are sixty years old. Retire. Buy a house on the beach. Do nothing. Die. Repeat.


I Wrote This Backwards(Not That It Matters)

I like some songs because they have a line that is repeated several times and if i sing along it feels like I am praying. I like praying, but only when the prayer is directed at no one in particular.

Sometimes I feel like I’m all alone. I have no conversations. I have friends that know me and friends that don’t. Of course, those that don’t can’t really tell the difference.

The voice of some radio hosts is unbearable. Maybe not so much their voice but their way of speaking.

Sometimes I’ll be in the middle of a run and a song will come on. In this song, there is a 10-second bridge that I love. It makes me feel infinite. Like anything I have done and anything I will do is perfectly fine as long as I do it with meaning. As long as I put my soul into it.

The hot water from the gym showers is like a gift. All my pain and nervousness and stress and sadness is washed away in the ten minutes I spend in that shower. The shampoo I use is less expensive than a sandwich and it’s not very good. Maybe if i buy a new one it will feel even better.

I like to go to a local cafe where I know everybody because it feels like home. Sometimes I go inside and just hang around for a while, talking to my friends who work there.I don’t even have to buy anything. I know they will be there when I show up. It’s familiar.

My phone rings to tell me that the battery is running out. It’s the only reason my phone rings. Sometimes it rings when my mother is calling me. The rest of the time it’s because the battery is running out.

The Glass Is Imaginary

Inspiration is hard to come by. Inspiration is even harder to come by when you’re a very young writer with an ever unattainable ideal of what is “meaningful”. Even if you asked nicely, I could not, ever, give you an exact definition of what “meaningful” is for me. It’s a feeling. It’s a feeling you must get from a piece of work that sets it apart from the others. You can get it from a movie, a painting or from a bottle of water and a cup of coffee. It’s this ethereal sensation that can’t be put into words and is physically non-existent. Technically it’s non-existent in every sense.

Still I get a feeling from someone’s eyes and from someone’s words that their soul or their brain or the electrical pulses that run through their bodies are “meaningful”.

And maybe sometimes I erase whole pages of something I’ve written thinking it’s not “meaningful” enough because I don’t want to write or say anything that won’t make a difference. To things that don’t really matter people usually say “It won’t change how mustard tastes”. I think it’s not worth doing if it doesn’t change how mustard tastes. In fact, it should make mustard taste better. It should make mustard feel like a day in the park, sitting next to someone you actually love, eating sandwiches lightly spiced by that same mustard. Something meaningful makes mustard taste like that time you got bullied to tears but then went out and got an ice cream. And that ice cream tasted to incredibly “meaningful” that your whole life was defined by that decisive moment in which your tongue gently brushed the frozen surface of your food and your teeth felt the cold and you remembered you had a sore throat and it doesn’t matter if you’re going to be sick for a week because you felt it. You felt that meaning with your being. “Meaningful” writing should make mustard taste like a love letter you wrote and secretly hid in someone’s locker. It should taste like waiting for hours, waiting to see if that person has opened her locker or not. It should taste like pain with every single word you have poured into ink and that will inevitably find its way to that person’s memory and mind and maybe they will remember you forever as someone who wrote them the most beautiful love letter anyone has ever written them.

Quick fact, I might be the dumbest person in the planet. I say ‘might’ because maybe that top ranking is shared between many people and I’m actually just one of the dumbest people in the planet. But I might be because certain cultures say only idiots sigh. Only morons dream. Only imbeciles look at the stars and dream of love so pure and infinite that it’s unbearably “meaningful” and every time you think about it you think it’ll never come because it’s perfect and immaculate and unchanging.

My life is a repetition of a repetition of a repetition. I cannot do anything I haven’t done before. I am cursed to experience the same loss, the same heartbreak, the same feeling, over and over again. My rhythm, it scares away my worrying and my ego. Because everything that has happened will happen again. I’m 21 but I’m hundreds of years old and the marks on my face are invisible because they’re not there. My hands are broken and I write in infinite streams of thought that never come up with anything worth saying. My legs they will only walk in your direction because there exists no other direction. My feet they hurt there’s glass stuck below them and I can’t do anything about it because my every breath is dedicated to taking myself one step closer to your door. Because I must. Because it’s a feeling that getting your door constitutes something “meaningful” in my meaningless existence.

Your face is a constellation I desperately want to explore. Your smile is a hurricane and I’m addicted to standing in the middle of it with a video camera and a microphone hoping to some way capture it for eternity. Your legs they start gracefully and end in the most beautiful of corners and I’m just feeling them over to see if I can map them in my head and still find something new. And my hand on your cheekbones, it rests indefinitely like it belongs there and always has. Dreaming of you and your meaningfulness, my mind can’t sleep and my nose desperately tries to find your smell because it feels like home. And home feels so far away all the time. I wait forever for a change in your expression that tells me that I am your home too and I am cursed to stare at your eyes for eternities never moving an inch.

I stutter and I shut up and I try to say something but don’t because I’m scared you won’t like it. I smile too much and I cry way too often because I know it makes no difference but still I have to deal with it somehow.