Link to original post: [drupal=2106]el emo is emo, and other fun facts about collisions in deep space[/drupal]
At 6:43 AM, another ignition turns in the parking lot outside my apartment. Dawn broke an hour ago; the sky is a pale blue. The buses have started, and the parking lot is still mostly full.
My gas tank is full, but I've got nowhere to go.
The light in my half-kitchen is still on; it's been on since 8:00 yesterday evening.
At 6:47, another ignition turns. The engine idles for a while before the sound fades away.
Before 9:00, the guy with the motorcycle will start that thing up, and the rumble will dig into my skull until he finally makes his way out onto the street.
I could have saved some money if I had canceled my phone and Internet service, but I needed one of those things to find work.
The listings seem to have dwindled since I walked away from my job last month. They might have been fake after all. Like most other things on the Net.
Usually on a cushion on the floor, between cardboard boxes and scattered piles of papers and books, I hunch over my best friend. I type, click.
There's a part of your mind that just simply refuses to believe that there's nothing out there for you. It's the same part that makes you ignore the dawn outside the window, the worn muscles at the back of your neck, the cockroaches on your wall, and the ants that keep coming in through the crack between the front door and the door frame.
The boxes and piles of trash that comprise my world's wealth are a bigger promise [edit: problem]*. I started packing weeks ago. I stopped when I realized I may not have a place to go to next.
I own papers. A lot of them. I threw away a stack of old research assignments from my school days. At first, you think you might want to keep things like that. It's your work. It's your writing. But then you actually take a look at it, and then you read the red ink on the back. Then you change your mind.
The rest is miscellaneous garbage fit for a yard sale. Which I can't really have since I don't have a yard.
I don't own any property. I don't own my car; I don't own this cockroach infested apartment. I don't even own a bed.
I own my time, but only because I walked away from the people who used to own it. They promptly then stopped paying me for it, and I won't come close to owning anything else until I manage to sell myself to someone else.
I don't own this blog.
I don't own my Facebook profile either. But that's a good thing. I don't want to own it. Days like this, when I greet the dawn with a crooked back and bloodshot eyes, I stay the h*ll away from Facebook. I stay away from real people I know. I don't want to hear about the things going on in their lives. I don't want to hear how happy they are to finally get married, have a baby, have a dog, or how excited they are to go back to school, or to finally graduate, or to finally own a house, or to finally make things official with a new girlfriend, or to get promoted at work. It wouldn't be fair of me to be such an *ss, I know, so I stay away to keep from unloading on people.
I haven't matured enough to stop feeling sorry for myself, but I have matured enough to stop making other people feel like sh*t out of godd*mn self-pity.
So I tell it to the Net, which is like screaming to the ocean. The ocean could give two sh*ts whether you float or drown. The Internet is the same way. It swallows **** and angst the way concrete breaks rain.
The way the world breaks your dreams.
Maybe your teachers didn't tell you about that part. It's okay, my teachers lied to me too.
Dreams don't die easy deaths. It might take ten years to put one down. But it takes more than that to put down a human being.
Just remember that, Nino. You still have time. Bleed into the garden of life. Break a few bones while you're at it. Do it. I mean, you got any better ideas?
My parents called a few days ago to remind me which of their friends' kids are going back to school or graduated and how much they make and which cousins got married and had kids and how are you doing by the way without anyone in your life or any plans for the future?
"I'm fine. The same. How is everyone? I haven't seen them in a while. We were still kids the last time we got together. It's funny to think of them as married now."
"It's not funny," my mother tells me in all seriousness. "It's life. People grow up, go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. Well, how about you?"
"Doing just fine."
"Slowly."
No. Yes.
It's slightly complicated. Well, no, not really. Mutations and stray asteroids, you know how they are. Harbingers of change--also synonymous with death and mass destruction and the disruption of the natural order. From time to time, a glitch surfaces in the program--briefly--and then the larger system steamrolls it, crushes it, and smooths it into the pavement, back to the way things were.
Not a big deal.
I have a different definition of life.
Sorry.
Wait. No.
Not sorry.
----------
*Sometimes, I Freudian like whoa.
At 6:43 AM, another ignition turns in the parking lot outside my apartment. Dawn broke an hour ago; the sky is a pale blue. The buses have started, and the parking lot is still mostly full.
My gas tank is full, but I've got nowhere to go.
The light in my half-kitchen is still on; it's been on since 8:00 yesterday evening.
At 6:47, another ignition turns. The engine idles for a while before the sound fades away.
Before 9:00, the guy with the motorcycle will start that thing up, and the rumble will dig into my skull until he finally makes his way out onto the street.
I could have saved some money if I had canceled my phone and Internet service, but I needed one of those things to find work.
The listings seem to have dwindled since I walked away from my job last month. They might have been fake after all. Like most other things on the Net.
Usually on a cushion on the floor, between cardboard boxes and scattered piles of papers and books, I hunch over my best friend. I type, click.
There's a part of your mind that just simply refuses to believe that there's nothing out there for you. It's the same part that makes you ignore the dawn outside the window, the worn muscles at the back of your neck, the cockroaches on your wall, and the ants that keep coming in through the crack between the front door and the door frame.
The boxes and piles of trash that comprise my world's wealth are a bigger promise [edit: problem]*. I started packing weeks ago. I stopped when I realized I may not have a place to go to next.
I own papers. A lot of them. I threw away a stack of old research assignments from my school days. At first, you think you might want to keep things like that. It's your work. It's your writing. But then you actually take a look at it, and then you read the red ink on the back. Then you change your mind.
The rest is miscellaneous garbage fit for a yard sale. Which I can't really have since I don't have a yard.
I don't own any property. I don't own my car; I don't own this cockroach infested apartment. I don't even own a bed.
I own my time, but only because I walked away from the people who used to own it. They promptly then stopped paying me for it, and I won't come close to owning anything else until I manage to sell myself to someone else.
I don't own this blog.
I don't own my Facebook profile either. But that's a good thing. I don't want to own it. Days like this, when I greet the dawn with a crooked back and bloodshot eyes, I stay the h*ll away from Facebook. I stay away from real people I know. I don't want to hear about the things going on in their lives. I don't want to hear how happy they are to finally get married, have a baby, have a dog, or how excited they are to go back to school, or to finally graduate, or to finally own a house, or to finally make things official with a new girlfriend, or to get promoted at work. It wouldn't be fair of me to be such an *ss, I know, so I stay away to keep from unloading on people.
I haven't matured enough to stop feeling sorry for myself, but I have matured enough to stop making other people feel like sh*t out of godd*mn self-pity.
So I tell it to the Net, which is like screaming to the ocean. The ocean could give two sh*ts whether you float or drown. The Internet is the same way. It swallows **** and angst the way concrete breaks rain.
The way the world breaks your dreams.
Maybe your teachers didn't tell you about that part. It's okay, my teachers lied to me too.
Dreams don't die easy deaths. It might take ten years to put one down. But it takes more than that to put down a human being.
Just remember that, Nino. You still have time. Bleed into the garden of life. Break a few bones while you're at it. Do it. I mean, you got any better ideas?
My parents called a few days ago to remind me which of their friends' kids are going back to school or graduated and how much they make and which cousins got married and had kids and how are you doing by the way without anyone in your life or any plans for the future?
"I'm fine. The same. How is everyone? I haven't seen them in a while. We were still kids the last time we got together. It's funny to think of them as married now."
"It's not funny," my mother tells me in all seriousness. "It's life. People grow up, go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. Well, how about you?"
"Doing just fine."
"Slowly."
No. Yes.
It's slightly complicated. Well, no, not really. Mutations and stray asteroids, you know how they are. Harbingers of change--also synonymous with death and mass destruction and the disruption of the natural order. From time to time, a glitch surfaces in the program--briefly--and then the larger system steamrolls it, crushes it, and smooths it into the pavement, back to the way things were.
Not a big deal.
I have a different definition of life.
Sorry.
Wait. No.
Not sorry.
----------
*Sometimes, I Freudian like whoa.
