Concentrated Thoughts - Freshly Squeezed

The windows are all closed – all five of them – because of the storm. I try to imagine my life without windows, opened or closed, and I cannot. I will not be put into a room without exit. But that is not important.

I have fueled the front of my life with alcohol and cigarettes but the back of it is dry. I have tried to get it wet, but most of the time I think too much. I lay with my back exposed and my tummy frowns; I lay with my front exposed and my back aches. I can never get things right.

Right now I am dreaming of a time, far from now, when I’m old. I’ll be ready to take orders out of an earpiece. I’ll be ready to follow them without hesitation. My hesitation will stumble upon itself and sigh. Of relief.

It is 10:28 and the windows are closed. They are closed for the sake of cleanliness – a dry room. I have tried to keep my doors open but there is too much to lose. I am at loss. But none of this should matter at all.

The soul matters. My own perception matters. Your own perception that I wish to know matters.

I once thought that I could get into the mind of a character, whether fictional or real, through books. I read so much that I’m afraid to stop in order to take it all in. No one takes it all in ever. The brain draws Xs on the parts of a story that it cannot remember.

I see Xs when I think of you. You probably see blue skies and a shit load of sunshine, but I cannot see the sunshine. It rains too much in my world.

The windows are closed and the storm is all over. I am not afraid of being dry. I am too much like the back of my life. I wish to place a cover over myself to keep out danger. I look at danger as something to hide from. Like all those diseases that we hear on the news. All the pesticides in foods. All the songs that end abruptly because they can.

Too many people are closed. I can barely hear their lives above mine. I want to hear your life louder. I want to feel it drumming. I want to listen to the music of your walk in this rain that has already stopped. Stop walking.

Maybe I am crazy about other people but I’m only crazy because no one can understand. No one can understand the workings of a lonely mind, the lonely hand that holds this lonely pen.

Frustration builds the character, creates more frustration.

Modern day novels give me nothing but death. I have become immune to the world. I want to be immune to sorrow so that I can live it without breathing heavily. I want not to be immune at all so that I can live it and feel it. No one feels someone else’s sorrow unless it is in the movies.

Count how many times you have cried over a death on the news. Write it down.

Count how many times you have cried over a death in a movie. Write it down.

Don’t tell anyone because they will call you shallow. The puddles in our minds hold more than those we release or speak aloud. This time I am speaking, speaking, speaking. Can you hear me?

Feel free to interject an idea. Inject me with your sorrow, your power, your voice. I cannot bear to be myself anymore. I cannot bear to breathe these breaths anymore. I am ashamed of the air. It has a pungent smell. Failure.