music.
music is just another one of those silly little things.
a silly little thing that makes everything a little bit easier
a silly little thing that make the world a little bit simpler
a silly little thing that keeps you from drowning in your own existence
as the dusk kills the day.
music is just a silly little thing
that makes everything so much more
well
more.
it’s hard not to sigh in relief of myself as the applause slowly dies down
the rhythmic popping of dusty vinyl quietly gives birth to mahler symphony no. 5
proud trumpets dancing with timid clarinets
ornery cymbals brawling with apathetic euphoniums
myriad strings brashly trying to outdo one another
bass and snare stoically humming sweet nothings to no one in particular
cacophonous harmonies of major 7ths flirting with diminished 4ths
the breathy staccatos of movement no. 1 “trauermarsch”
a fluid, moving contradiction
beauty calling itself a funeral procession
as it tautologically proves
the world might not be such a bad place after all.
movement no. 2 gleefully taunts the ignorant american in me
“stürmisch bewegt, mit größter sehemenz” which means
(at least according to the irrefutable wikipedia)
“moving stormily, with the greatest vehemence”
and goddamn, does it ever.
before i even realize it
movement no. 3 bursts into existence
“scherzo” my god
i don’t even know up from down anymore
trombones smash into the world
woodwinds segue into brass like playing a game of bloody knuckles with cement
there is a sudden raw guffaw of hypnotic trills and canon
it is melting into
something something something
bloody french
fancy jargon is no longer a priority
struggling for breath
scrambling for the words
that could never do it justice.
tick tock tick tock.
where did the last ten minutes go?
my body begs for respite
please, Mahler, please
give me a breather you savage bastard
“crescendo. stringendo. accellerando.”
are the only mercies i receive in reply
and then it begins
oh my god
does it fucking begin.
movement no. 4 “adagietto”
in german, “sehr langsam”
an imperative statement, “always slowly”
ha. ha.
as if anyone could make it through this fucking thing
without dying horribly
without loving shamefully
without existing terribly
without being murdered by bits of rapture and fleeting emotions
without being having your sanity consumed by counterpoint and cadence
i no longer care that she forgot about a promise made by two stupid teenagers
i no longer care that i have far too much debts owed to nameless strangers
i no longer care about bridges burnt with regret, back where the water used to be
I don’t know how i ever forgot,
Mahler you beautiful bastard of a cold dead corpse,
how you make me feel so goddamn alive.
movement no. 5 enters
subtle arpeggios remind me of simpler days
warm doting mothers and cereal soggy with milk
i can never think straight after no. 4
at last, no. 5 “rondo (final)”
Mahler you wonderful fucker
once again you’ve turned me into a quivering wreck of a human being
i wonder why hubris tastes like the ass swig of an old whiskey bottle
i wonder why words only come when everyone else has left
a tired giggling of flutes faintly echoes somewhere
a lonely french horn’s F# fades into the silence of a softer world
a tinge of longing for something you’ve convinced yourself was nothing
it’s funny how those always hurt oh so well.
maybe icarus wasn’t such a sad story after all
just a power outage in the sky
it’s better than complaining to god on hospital floors
angrily coveting the beautiful things we forgot we already are
at least the wax melted
before any of his dreams did.
#music #poetry #prose
hello whiskey, my old friend - pt.2
[pt.1] https://theprose.com/post/28499/hello-whiskey-my-old-friend
Hello whiskey, my old friend. Yes, yes it’s really me. I know it’s been quite a while. The words just don’t quite come like they used to. It’s maddening this world, isn’t it? How-
Ah, yes I know. I’m an “adult” now, don’t you know? Hah, it feels weird even just saying it. What does it matter if I still feel like I’m in high school, right? Twenty-seven years—ah what was the cliche—cold or some-
No, no, I am not sad, don’t worry, bràthair. I am not stuck in some vertex of ennui, nor depressed nor anything like that. Maybe I don’t talk as much as I used to. Maybe I don’t quite find the same things funny I did a few years ago. Maybe I have noticed, little by little, that I’m not actually immune to humanity. I am, in fact, not some immortal Peter-Man-Pan-Can-Can’t-If-Only-Haha!
Indeed, I’m actually quite satisfied with my life, broski. I am quite boring now, I admit that I don’t go out much anymore.
No more of those crazy
all night party holy damn
wow why am I waking up in a
bathtub that is full of blue
Kool-aid but the girl I happen to
like just asked me out ah shoot it
really turns out she just was playing
wing-lady to-oh-god-like I can remember
anymore I’m way way way way way way way way way
WaaaaaaaaaAAaAAAaAAAaAAaAAAAaAAAaaAAaaaAAaaAaayyyyyy
WAY
too drunk to—
god life is great
—nights.
Yes, old friend, haha, no more nights like those. I am trying my best to be an adult now, man stop, haha. I have to be proper, you know. I might land a job if I try hard enough, right? I mean, shoot, that’s fair and life is always fair well maybe not but hey what happens happens, right? Maybe I was not the most motivated or the smartest or anything special or really even a little past where the ordinary overflowed somewhere a few years back or but I worked my ass off! Haha, I do-
Oh god I remember tha-
Ahaha! Man... where did the years go, huh?
Seems just yesterday I was some dumb-ass kid who didn’t really care about anything. But now look at me, strange right? Sort sort of respectable, an adult-ish creature and I wouldn’t be too ashamed at all if I were to die right now. I mean, there are holes and black spots in my soul I wouldn’t dare poke, but so what? Being human is grey and you need a bit of black to get the colors just right. Oh man, do y-
Ah, no, no. No whiskey for me tonight. Yes, boring I know. No, really I-
No, no, it’s not that at all, old friend. It’s not that I don’t miss the fun times we had. Truly, it was great. Living free, the world was our oyster, RIGHT? But. Really, here I am realizing that no, no, the oyster wasn’t an oyster at all but just a plastic bottle of something I don’t even recognize or want at all anymore.
But, lets not dwell on that. I mean, here we are. Years. But alive we are, you and I, old friend. Glad-
Oh what’s that? You met someo-
Wow, is that really the first thing you said to her?
How the stars were just pimples in the sky compares to he smile and how when you saw her face there could never be anyone else and that it would be perfect and passionate and rough and soft and how no no no we won’t be like those other couples and no no no we are special and no no no you are indescribable and no no no though sometimes my words are sad and trite and cold I couldn’t mean them any harder because God when I see you I can no longer think straight and I stutter because you are beautiful, yet, you have insides fu-
Haha, right, right. Sorry for rambling. Well, I am really glad for you. It seems like this time, you were right about all those things. That-
Wow, she really said all that back to you?
How you were her sun and moon that she would never love you to death only love you alive and that years later even after the terrible break up in some terrible dispute that horribly really was nothing at all that I will still love you quite terribly and how she would keeps all the boxes of birthday cards you handmade her and how she would always keep the box the you made her for the warm sad soul you said saw in hey and although she would never talk about it she still cared but creepy is creepy and love is patient and kind and angry and horrible and although maybe she might forget for a few years and maybe the stuffed Pikachu will sit in the back of her closet she hasn’t forgetten anything and that whatever we are now is what we are but she won’t ever forget what we were.
God, old friend. You two were made for each-other. Strange how Lady Luck is retired now. But here we are, frater. I do remember love like that. I do remember the end of love like that. But—water under the bridge—as they say, foxes and grapes and whatnot, you know what I mean. Seriously though teina, you lucked out you. I-
Ah. True.
Enough of that depressing talk right? I mean, here we are, right? We’re alive. You and I somehow, through all of the crazy and all of the boring, yet we somehow haven’t crossed our names off on some list in the heavens somewhere or some list in Avicii somewhere or just a grocery list forgotten about years ago or that we haven’t ended up as cold, dead corpses; whoever we were, in the end we all end up with nothing but sh-
SHOOT, stubbed my toe. Ow, gah. Where was I? Ah, right...
in our pants. Caveat lector my bror, haha, sorry, this is what happens once I start talki-
Oh, what was that? I seem happier than last time? Well, I am! I-
Why?
Well, I guess that’s a good question. But...
Why not?
I’m alive aren’t I?
I have found something I am somewhat good at. Not amazing, but maybe one day if I try, who knows? I have a use, a purpose, a point! What more do I need? I am living every day like well God, if i died? I’d slap him on the back and say, “Thanks for the ride, G-man!” I don’t drink much anymore, but I chain-smoke like a motherf-
Ah, yes yes, bad habit I know. I need some vice, though. Sanity and all?
Life’s not some white, pure, get in get out perfect cupcake!
Life’s more like that slab of ribs, that one tequila too much but wow it was fun.
Life’s that water-slide that scared the living daylights out of you.
Life’s that messy first date where everything kinda sucked but everything was kind perfect.
Life’s a bunch of people and places and things and feeling and sounds and music.
Life’s a bunch of experiences and tears and joy and laughter and sadness and smiles.
Life’s a bunch of words and compliments and insults and laughs and love and songs.
Life’s a bunch of things no one can ever remember or forget and THAT’S-
Why it’s so damned great?
Why do I wake up in the morning and go about my day? Because I damn well want to, of cour-
Haha, yes yes, I got a bit excited there, sorry about that.
I just feel like we haven’t talked in a long time, is all.
Maybe the last time was sad.
Maybe I was a little bit pathetic.
But still, I’m glad I can still call you veli.
Kazoku, like they say in Japan.
C’est la vie. Bloody French.
All those expressions in all those languages I don’t actually know but—
the words...
—they make me feel something. Music without music.
Anyway, funny isn’t it? Years later, here I sit.
Talking to whiskey and wine, just another madman who isn’t really angry at all-
Ah yes, I remember last year. Our last conversation didn’t end so well.
How distraught I was, surrounding by so much genius I couldn’t be bothered to read.
“An Odyssey,” I said. “An Iliad,” I joked, hah. What was the rest? OH, I remember, “Too fu”-
No, no wait, let me stop you there. This isn’t me anymore at all, tij laug. You know, after I while you realize no one needs any of those silly melodramatics at all.
Why?
Well, because life’s not really so bad.
Why?
Well, maybe I feel a bit more boring. Hell, maybe I am a bit more boring, but deep down-
No no, DEEP down. Who am I deep down, bruder?
Am I still afraid of adventure? Not anymore. God, man, living is adventure!
Huckleberry-Finn? Just a name!
Hubris?
Well, you talk about all these flowery word but what are they?
What is hubris without a silly human, dueling Atlantis water pistol in hand, all-in with his life on the line?
Why?
What’s the point in pettifog over the name of some car in some street?
Desire? Desire is raw humanity. Desire is not something that belongs to rubber and steel and vinyl and glass.
Crime, punishment, these are for us, for the men and women, not mice nor pigs any animals on the whatever farm.
I wasn’t alive in 1984, and damned if I remember who Aesop even is anymore.
Names? Names are just words on paper and sounds on lips and they mean nothing without the thing behind it and—look —God is a word in a book just like any other and Odin is a word as is Hades and Thor and all of them! All of them just words, sometimes ugly sometimes beautiful, but everyone forgets that so is Lot so is Ægir so is Andhrímnir and cooks are a still lovers and cooks are still fighters and Lachesis will still judge your ass whether or not you remember how she was fate itself and Hildebrand and Hadubrand who invented the cliffhanger, well dammit, they are as glorious as Hercules even if no one else thinks so.
So here we sit, old friend.
Why?
Well, maybe we realize that we are not all that shiny or exciting. Who cares if we end up another of Les Misérables? Don’t you remember the ending? Jean Valjean died, as do we all. But-
Why? Why do I care?
Hah, your memory fails you, ախպեր. Glory and dramatics and action and all of this and all of that and if you don’t have life is pointless and God-
What’s wrong with not wanting that?
Maybe, just maybe, it’s not so horrid a mortal sin, so taboo a way of life, to just be me or you or whoever you are or want to be today. What’s wrong with a bit of contentment? Life isn’t action and gunfight and spies and orgies and car chases and cops and robbers and death and chaos. Life is dull and sharp. Life is alive.
In the end, Jean Valjean died content, did he not?
Why not live like that as well?
#prose #poetry #writing #streamofconsciousness
manic.
_everyone_understands.
we trade in our dated *justices*,
our obsolescent *orders*.
but oh—in return?!
the shiny, the new,
the incredibly distracting!
there are still *orders* _everywhere_ anyway;
online, offline, awake, asleep,
some come with complimentary Starbucks,
some come with /"It's complicated,"/
and all are shipped to _anywere_ in the world.
so is this our justice v2.0.0-rc1?
days spent blurry and _chaotic_;
hoping, praying, that one day,
maybe, just maybe,
we'll reach the top?
maybe one day—the writing on the wall
will start to seem a little clearer…
those whispy, grey strands of wisdom.
slowly drowing in apathy.
maybe one day—our comedic struggle of life
will permit a few specks of sanity…
glistening like the first Easter Egg of the year;
hidden in the holes where our attention-spans used to be.
maybe one day—nothing special
will happen at all…
nothing will become of anything;
the dusk murdered by night,
the mourning's endless blue skies,
scattered pandemonium,
manic, helpless, complacent,
as we lie there,
slowly, beautifully,
drowning in our own wanderlust.
--
Joey Pabalinas
on masquerades.
the crickets are deafening.
it is a bit strange how you don't really notice yourself normally, isn't it?
going about your normal day without a care in the world.
i do know the feeling.
it is sort of surreal when you take a moment to do the opposite.
whether by fleeting chance, or some sort of masochistic crusade,
it isn't a bad feeling at all; not really a good one either.
it is simple just a feeling.
i think it's about 1 a.m., maybe?
no one else awake but the crazies and the kindred spirits.
sort of reminds me of early morning;
no one about but the crickets and angels.
ah, mornings!
my favorite; aside from the dead of night.
everyone just going about their beautiful lives,
exhausted from exhilarating nightmares, hungover from fighting their dreams.
early mornings and the dead of night are the only times i really feel alive.
i am quite comfortable around people in the mornings.
no one really cares about anything.
—off to work!
—off to school!
everyone just sort of “is.”
ah, but as the day drags on…
people start to wake up.
you may start to notice things you haven't a few hours earlier.
—hm, my car is quite dirty today.
—ah, it seems my hair is a bit more disheveled than usual.
—my beard is starting to get a bit long!
—egads, it seems that jesus has pissed all over my lawn…
i notice these things too.
i am not some disconnected watcher;
as much as i may want to be.
maybe it's part of the human condition?
maybe it's just some sort of fucked cosmological joke.
—ah i should dust off my vinyl collection; make it presentable for when i have company over!
forget that i haven't actually listened to any of these records in months.
—oh my bookshelf seems a bit disorderly today
forget that i haven't touched half of these books in years.
oh, but how the evening heals us!
the pretty people all go back to their gorgeous houses
to eat their beautiful dinners and watch their elegenat televisions
kiss their delightful children and head to their copacetic bedrooms
with their absolutely resplendant hubands and wives.
there is truly nothing wrong with that.
in fact, i find it quite refreshing.
simple;
real.
aleatoricism:
beauty; by
chance.
finally, the night returns!
the world chasing sleep.
the sane are at rest.
but…
—the rest of us?
—we are up all night.
—the rest of us?
—we have demons to fight.
ah, the whiskey is gone.
the internet is back.
the cigarette pack teases empty.
and the crickets are deafening.
on dreams.
So why do I want to be a programmer? Why do I want to work in software development? Why do I want to spend hours in gdb trying to figure out why my program is segfaulting? Why do I want to spend most of the day reading manpages to figure out library function prototypes? Why do I want to make it nearly a certainty that I will end up with an RSI later in life; some sort of typing related horror that will probably make daily task incredibly annoying?
Well, the short and simple answer is because it's fun.
It's a joy hacking away at code, dereferencing pointers with reckless abandon, clobbering registers for the fun of it, coming up with ridiculously hacky solutions to problems that would make most normal people swoon.
It's really something I love.
So what makes a good programmer? The answer varies depending on who you ask of course, but ask the grizzled veterans, the ones who used to hack away on TX-01s between classes and build telephone relays to thwart service provider fees, you'll start to see the answers sort of converge; I've eventually learned that these are the ones that warrant your full, undivided attention.
Programming is hard. There's no ifs, ands, or buts about it, and really it is not some sort of thing you can do half-heartedly. Attention to detail is incredibly important. You need to be willing to put the work in; when you have a problem you can't solve no matter how hard you throw your brain pan at it, you can't just check stack overflow and copy-paste some snippet call you a programmer. Well, you can, but eventually, your hubris will catch up with you. You'll find yourself stuck way in over your head, and end up quitting and becoming a lumberjack or something.
No, you have to actually want to know the “why”. The internet is great, answers to nearly any problem are right your fingertips, but just using someone else's work and calling it a day will eventually come back to bite you. Googling is fine and dandy, encouraged even, but you have to try to understand “why” this is the solution. By doing so, you not only are bettering your craft, you are building towards something far more important: A foundation for your entire programming career.
Knowing how some tiny, useless snippet works under-the-hood, say the reason why:
char a[] = "foo";
putchar(2[a]);
prints out 'f' may seem useless and unimportant; who would ever need to use something like this in production? But as it turns out, this is a brick in the house you are building. Because you are aware that array indexing is just pointer math:
2[a] == *(2 + a) == *(a + 2) == a[2]
when you come across some weirdo problem like:
int arr[2][3] = {{1, 2, 3}, {4, 5, 6}};
*(*(arr + 1) + 2) = 0;
you are then able to realize you are doing array indexing, and it's the same as:
int arr[2][3] = {{1, 2, 3}, {4, 5, 6}};
arr[1][2] = 0;
and you end up with
int arr[2][3] = {{1, 2, 3}, {4, 5, 0}};
without having to sort through any incredibly ugly pointer math.
Now having technical know-how isn't at all the only thing you need to be any good at programming; in fact, it's not even the most important trait to have. Above all, the thing that makes or breaks you is humility. You need to be humble, a person who understands that “I am probably am not some super-prodigy one-in-a-million chosen-by-god programmer who knows everything.” Having the courage to admit that “I probably need to seek out help” every now and then is incontrovertibly the most important characteristic to have; it truly is what defines a professional programmer.
And to be humble, as simple as it may seem, is NOT easy.
So what are my long-term aspirations? I have no clue. I haven't fully planned out my life apart from a general direction I have pointed myself in, and I don't really feel a pressing need to do so. I just want to be happy, spending my days hacking away at projects that tickle my fancy, creating programs others find useful; everyone wants to make some sort of mark on the world after all.
I do want to be good at my craft, and I will not pretend I am without sin; the sins I have gone over I am guilty of committing far more than a few times. I will not apologize for being human. But I am earnestly working at it. In the end, if I were to ask myself: “Where am I going? What is it I really want to be in this unimaginably huge sea of possibilities?” Well, at this point, the only answer I can give right now would be a simple one, maybe one that would be considered a bit corny by most, but it would be something given in surety:
I just want to be a human being worth a damn.
just fucking do it already.
I don't usually like being around other people. I don't usually care
much for interacting with other people. For a long time, I sort of told myself
it was because I happened to be some sort of weirdo misanthrope, but after a
while I realized that I didn't actually hate anyone (in fact at the time I
found myself growing rather fond of a few select people) and that it was more
that the presence of this nagging, unshakable annoyance with the things you
have to keep track of, the things that you have to watch for, the things
that you have to BE when interacting with other human beings, that all of
this was just completely and absolutely tiring.
I hear people say things like, “there are people in this world who
prefer solitude, but there is no one who can withstand it,” as if being around
around other people is some sort of important prerequisite for existing; as if
it's something that you would die without, and this sort of assertion confuses
me greatly. Maybe I'm fucked in the head or something because I feel the
complete opposite. Being around others tires me greatly; having to empathize
with what they happen to be saying at that very moment, having to keep
track of what's socially acceptable, keeping in mind what is the “normal”
response to this arbitrary conversational fragment, what I should be doing
with my hands, my arms, my fucking feet while I am juggling these thoughts,
even what fucking facial expressions are appropriate to wear at this time,
this arbitrary moment, and after all of this repeat. If only god were merciful,
but sadly, there is no jump to coda here.
To be quite honest, it's absolutely baffling to me how other people DON'T find
all of this ridiculously tiring.
Yes, yes, I know it's a part of life. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm speaking
against the sun here. It's not like I'm expecting any of this to change; I
realize this is a part of being human and shit; I need to deal with it. It's
just one of those things in life you are never gonna enjoy but you have to
do anyway. One of those time you have to be a fucking adult, suck it up,
and deal with it.
So I do.
I have a problem I have to deal with.
I have something I have to do in order deal with this particular problem.
I do it.
Ok. Wham Bam, Thank You, Maam.
I mean, it makes sense right? You have a problem, you figure out how
to fix the problem, and you fucking fix it. Simple, right? I've probably
thought about this far more than would be deemed sane, and I've come to
the fairly quotidian conclusion that this simple, succinct method is the
best way to solve problems.
To me, it's obvious as fuck.
But to my surprise, this sort of thinking is fairly unique. I try my best to
keep an open mind about things I don't know shit about, so it is highly
probable that I'm just one weird fuck. Maybe for other people, this kind of
thinking is anything but trivial. Maybe this sort of approach is actually the
alien one; thus I don't want to make any unnecessary judgements.
So instead, I will just do my best to appeal to you:
Please, for the fucking love of god, just do it already.
Go make that beautiful sculpture.
Go paint the next Mona Lisa.
Go out and apply for that fucking job.
Go travel the world.
Go kayaking,
go mountain climbing,
go bobsledding,
go hiking,
go scuba diving,
go backpacking,
go motherfucking sky diving already, jesus.
Go build that fucking car you keep bitching about.
Go on that date with that girl you can't shut up about.
Go program the next open-source operating system.
Go build that monster stereo system,
go find a baby seal and adopt it,
go distill the whiskey of your dreams,
go learn to surf,
go eat a taco for the first time,
go start a clothing line,
go become the world's best light-bulb engineer,
go fucking do the thing you keep talking about doing;
just fucking go.
Maybe it's easier for me because I am some sort of weird fuck-up who
has no idea how to interact with real human beings, but that doesn't change the
fact that you are doing nothing but hurting yourself by sitting there, stagnant,
griping about the things that you “will” do, yet never doing them. So please,
for the love of god, do yourself a favor. Take that thing you keep talking
about and go fucking do it. Please. I promise it won't end up as bad as you
think it will. Yeah, you may fail a few times. Yeah, it may suck. But think of
it this way:
afterwards,
when all is said and done,
when you've given it the old college-go,
that maybe,
just maybe,
you may just happen to discover that,
shit,
it was worth it.
on being a fucking adult.
for me personally, prose is the thing i was born to. prose is the thing i could do drunk off my ass in the middle of the night. prose is the thing i could never seem to fuck up as completely as everything else in my life.
but it's easy to drink all day, typing silly little poems about nothing particularly important. it's easy to ramble on about ambiguous metaphors or imagined slights. so i guess i thought i'd try writing something a little more down to earth. something a little less trite. something a little more sober. maybe it'll suck. maybe it won't.
you hear that expression everywhere: "walk a mile in some else's shoes"; you've probably even repeated it one or two times yourself. but that idiom pisses me off. i believe the author of this statement itself meant well, yet missed the entire point: do you really need to go through the same experiences as someone else before you are able to empathize with them?
of course not.
there's no possible way that you'll ever go through all, or even a significant portion, of the experiences of just one of the myriad people you'll meet over the course of your life. there's no way you'll be able to walk even a few feet in another person's shoes, let alone an entire mile. so what am i getting at here; am i saying empathy is pointless?
of course not.
empathy is by far the trait i consider the most important in regard to other people. shit; it's by far the trait that i consider the most important in regard to myself.
i find the thought that you need to share someone's experiences before you can understand someone's feelings completely maddening. i find the assumption that you need to feel what someone feels before you can empathize with what they feel absolutely absurd. yes, i agree it never hurts to know what it feels like to be in someone else's shoes, but knowing how someone else is feeling should never, ever be a prerequisite for taking it upon yourself to understand how someone else is feeling.
ever.
z-en.
—black and white are all i see.
eyes shut
cold and sick
—ugh
red and yellow; a tugging at my arm.
—for fucks sake
i know i can't hide much longer
i feign sleep anyway
it's annoying
the cold arm pulling me back to reality
—christ
—can't a man get a bit of sleep nowadays?
i run through all the normal excuses in my head
—maybe today i'll dust-off the "ideopathic back pain"
—or maybe stomach would be a better choice
the hospital sheets try their best to warn me
the cold arm continues to tug.
—fuck it
i suppose i can just improvise
—black and white are all i see
until red and yellow and fuck and jesus and shit and god
the cold steel bar of the hospital bed blindsides me
i'm rolling over the sides
—shit shit shit shit shit
my eyes are barely open, but somehow i know
maybe it was a kind of instinct
maybe it was a kind of madness
just before i barely slide out of the way
just before the hungry teeth sink into the pillow behind me
something inside me knew that i had woken up in a horrible place
something inside me knew that i had woken up somewhere
shit smack in the middle of something
something very, very…
fucked.
i stumble, making a mad dash towards the door
my wrist suddenly crying out
—this can't be happening
but it is.
i'm unable to register my surroundings
but oh god, the smell
the low, droning moans remind me that i am fucked
the cold handcuffs, screaming metal laughter.
—shit shit shit shit shit shit
i feel another bite narrowly miss my shoulder
i can hear the crack of teeth and bone hitting metal behind me
my wrist cries out again as i struggle against the cuffs holding me to the bed
she's on me now.
i can feel dead, rotted breasts on my neck
the chaos is stifling
i can't help myself
somehow, i find myself wondering;
—who are you?
maybe "who were you?" would be more appropriate.
my thoughts interrupted as i dodge another lunge
this time the teeth sink into the hair underneath my ear
—fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
isn't my life supposed to be flashing before my eyes?
suddenly i'm wishing i were fucked and high and strung out somewhere
wishing this were all some fucked fever dream
wishing i would wake up in the psych ward again and laugh it all off over a few Lorazepam
—oh christ
i see it
shining and wonderful
i feel teeth graze the back of my hospital gown
i dive towards the foot of the bed
i feel my uncuffed hand grasping the hope of the handle as i swing it back around
i feel its barrel against her skull
i feel myself scream useless and weak
i feel the relief of my finger crying out red and yellow
i feel her slump on top of me
limp and silent.
i can't do anything but sit there
—shit
—shit shit shit shit shit shit
—shit.
i push her off me
the sober reality finally setting in
i'm really here.
the end of the line.
—fuck
luck is on my side
sort of.
i find a key under the bed
by some act of god i hear the click as the handcuffs slide off
rubbing my wrists, i stumble into the doorway
as i stare out into the hospital halls
the fluorescent lights flicker warnings
i slowly close my eyes, hoping against hope one last time
i can hear a faint shuffling in the distance
weak, slowly growing louder
a low moan echoes around the corner
i reply with a soft sigh
i can't help bringing my hands up behind my neck
locking my fingers in protest
trying to find some kind of temporary sanity
as i slump back down onto the bed
—black and white are all i see.
tick tock.
tick tock.
i am too restless to sleep.
Rachmaninoff is playing in the background
it is 4:00am
the clock replies
before i’ve even had a chance to ask.
tick tock.
screams the ennui
screams the insomnia
screams the empty bottle of whisky next to me
lying there
useless and beautiful.
tick tock.
Rachmaninoff crescendos into
something
something that he makes me long for
something that i wish i was able
to make other people long for too.
something that
something.
tick tock.
is the sound of the liquid draining
as i take a long swig from epiphany
from the bottle of vodka i had forgotten about
until now.
tick tock.
Rachmaninoff segues into Op. 30 “Alla Breve”
the piano longs for the strings
the winds long for the brass
yet all i long for is sleep.
tick tock.
more vodka more inebriation
more inebriation more fatigue
until sleep is finally able to take me
is what is supposed to happen
is my rationality.
if only.
tick tock.
i take another drink.
now the vodka is half empty.
i feel good.
i feel happy.
i feel
everything but tired.
fuck.
tick tock.
screams the mocking clock.
the brass section enters at last
Rachmaninoff crescendos once more
the angry denouement approaches
in my head i can see the conductor sweating
i can see the solo trumpet about to have an aneurysm
tick tock.
drowns out the blaring euphoniums
drowns out the screeching trombones
drowns out the melancholy of the crickets
outside my window
outside this feeling
outside.
tick tock.
it asks.
glug glug
i reply.
tick tock.
Rachmaninoff finishes
the vodka lies empty
i can shamelessly admit
i am drunk.
tick tock.
i am too drunk to care.
too drunk retaliate
too drunk to sleep.
tick tock.
tick tock.
the nausea is nothing
i am nothing
nothing is anything
tick tock.
screams the fucking clock.
4:01am.
tick. fucking. tock.