writing....I do it...
November 18th 2007 11:22
Heres some writing i've done....
just out of the blue
not really related to anything....
Be Zen.
Just be cool. Don't worry. I'm here.
Tabi says these things to me but I ca't believe her. Up to now, she's done nothing but lie to me. But she's still my best friend. and my closest companion.
But I don't think she exists.
Like a Hindu Cow, she says.
It's hot.
Damn hot.
Hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut. Sombody said that to me once. I liked the sound of it.
But it is hot. I'm sweating, everything's rubbing against everything else in an uncomfortable, sweaty way. The massive gloves make it hard to scratch any itch. So I take them off. The air hisses into the suit and everything becomes less sticky.
The helmet goes next. Then the pants. Then the torso.
I'm standing on the molten rock in shorts and a t-shirt gazing up into the sky and the oncoming sun.
I sit on the deck chair next to me and sip my cool cocktail.
This is a Cthonian planet. Spiraling into a sun. The only place I can be alone. I read something about these once. How they could exist but none had ever been found. I liked the sound of it. Somewhere completely dedicated to me. Sitting on the edge of destruction. Toeing the line.
Planets like this, they don't have any atmosphere. Yet i'm completly at home. Like a shrimp bred to live at the bottom of the world. I'm the product of millions of years of evolution and this is the only place suited to me. More than a little ironic I thought.
Back at the frontlines though. People talk to me, opinions are voiced. It's like a garden party of people come to see my brain. All sitting, chatting, drinking champange in my head. I can't get any thinking done.
So I leave. I get a few hours before the planet completly plummets into it's sun. Which is enough for me. I get my thought in order.
Then it's back to the real world.
I sit and listen to people complain in group therapy sessions. That's all they do. All they ever do. Seeminlgy all people are meant to do. They pull up chairs. Making the squeeking sound that everybody hates. Up come the chairs. Make a circle eveybody.
Now tell me what's bothing you.
And people talk for hours. People can do this. Talk for hours about themselves. But say nothing. Anybody can sit for hours and talk about their problems and how tough their life is compared to yours. But really, they don't want to be helped. Deep down they really don't want the miracle drug solution, because they enjoy the attention. But when it becomes someone else's turn. They tune out.
Much as I'm doing.
The best part.
The best part of living in a looney bin (my dad used to call them that, and it stuck),
Is that the drugs are free. Now may see this as the greatest thing ever to grace your pitiful life, but imagine this.
Imagine, you're confined to a cell all day long. Now I know, if you're high, that wouldn't bother you too much. Ok.
But imagine you then had to come out of the cell for hour at a time. Sit with nutjobs and talk about your feelings in a way that the good doctors thought was convincing.Or they took away your drugs.
Yep, took away your drugs. Shocking I know, they just cut you off.
So I pretend, I talk about how my life is improving, despite my illness.
What bollocks, my illness controls my life. And in every waking moment, i'm reminded of it.
Then you get free time.
Sounds like fun?
Nope. You get to wander around you slightly larger cage and talk to even nuttier jobs. Despite how repulive that may sound, I feels just like normal life. Just the same cage with a different coat of paint..
If you have enough money, you can move up a cage. But what does that allow? A bigger car, a slightly larger house to slowly decompose in.
Morbid, I know. But I can't help the way life fails us. Who can?
No matter how devoted to a cause you are. No matter now inspired you could be on a topic. There's allways somebody crazier with more money and power on the other side just waiting fot you to fail so they can make an example of you to the other supplicant masses.
But enough about you. You're less interesting then me anyway.
I'm sitting in therapy, talking about my feelings and how they are helping me come to terms with my illness and die peacefully.
My head lolls back and I cast my best insane look around the room. All the seats are filled today. All seems in order except the skeleton sitting across the room from me.
With one eye.
Now there is a story behind that.
This skeleton, it followsme around everywhere. I think it's an it anyway. As it's a skeleton, I find it hard to tell the difference. Plus, I don't want to get too close.
One day, I was lying in bed. Pretending to pretend to sleep and,
Flash,
i'm sitting in a doctor's office. He's asking me if I take drugs.
How could somebody honestly not notice? Or mabye he realises already. His bald head is dully reflecting the light in the room. And what a small room. The way I remember it, his office was like a sardine tin without fish. So small the door hits the desk when it opens all the way. My eye starts to twitch and I try to concentrate on the doctor. Not that he commands respect. He seems like a sad little man. I could imagine him working for decades to get to this point. And he's sitting behind his massive desk in a shoebox office thinking to himself,
I want to paint.
But then it's too late.
My eye feels strange. Like i'm sitting on a nerve.
One of my eyes starts to twirl in it's socket, like in a circle and I struggle to keep my cool. I squeak out a no, never, to the doctor and amazingly he seems to believe me. Or he wants me outside quickly because I make him uneasy.
How could he not notice?
I can't think about anything else. I can feel the pressure building behind my eye. It must be bulging out past my nose now.
He asks me a question about my family history, or some ridiclous question like that.
I can't hold it any longer.
My eye lid peels back and my eye rockets out into the room with a loud schloop sound. Blood sprays across the room and covers the doctor. I yelp and sink into the chair.
The pain should be immense, my fucking eye, is gone.
How could he have not noticed?
Not even wiping his face, he waffles on about severe this and genetic that.
I'm not it as much pain as you'd think. I think it might be over, fuck, he can have my eye if i can just leave.
But, no, it's never that easy.
I spot my eye. Crawling up the doctor's leg.
I catch my breath and stifle a yelp. It's making slow but steady progress.
It's reached his knee.
I can see the malice in it's eye and it gazes up at the doctor's face.
Do I warn him? Don't want to look crazy.
The doctor looks at me gravely and asks if I have anybody to take care of me.
Fuck that, I think, at least I don't have killer eye balls eye balling me.
The dripping, rippling mass slides onward towards his shirt.
How does it even climb?
No time for that! This could be a matter of life or death.
I'm squirming in my seat, making childish noise and gesturing towards his shirt. He looks at m
e sternly, as if waiting for an answer.
The eyeball reaches his collar.
And stops. I shoot to the edge of my seat and stare at the eye. I can almost feel the eye contemplating it's next move.
The doctor is staring at me with his eyebrows up. I say yes. It seems to be the answer he wanted because he's started citing textbooks and training manuals again.
I look back to his collar and the eye is gone.
I quickly scream and go back to looking interested. The doctor shoots into the air and backs his chair up against a pot plant.
Spinning around in my chair, I still can't see the eye. Shit like that just doesn't go away that easily. The doctor still looks like he's about to cry but he soldiers on.
I'm sliding out of the chair and trying to remain inconspicious as I glide across the room. I hope the doctor doesn't notice but he's stopped talking.
It working my way under his desk when I see it, the eye. It's unsteadily dripping down the light fixture. How did it get on the roof?
No time to think about that. It's dangling just above the doctor.
I'm staring at the doctor.
There will be more at some point
please help me massage my ego my offering your opinions..
just out of the blue
not really related to anything....
Be Zen.
Just be cool. Don't worry. I'm here.
Tabi says these things to me but I ca't believe her. Up to now, she's done nothing but lie to me. But she's still my best friend. and my closest companion.
But I don't think she exists.
Like a Hindu Cow, she says.
It's hot.
Damn hot.
Hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut. Sombody said that to me once. I liked the sound of it.
But it is hot. I'm sweating, everything's rubbing against everything else in an uncomfortable, sweaty way. The massive gloves make it hard to scratch any itch. So I take them off. The air hisses into the suit and everything becomes less sticky.
The helmet goes next. Then the pants. Then the torso.
I'm standing on the molten rock in shorts and a t-shirt gazing up into the sky and the oncoming sun.
I sit on the deck chair next to me and sip my cool cocktail.
This is a Cthonian planet. Spiraling into a sun. The only place I can be alone. I read something about these once. How they could exist but none had ever been found. I liked the sound of it. Somewhere completely dedicated to me. Sitting on the edge of destruction. Toeing the line.
Planets like this, they don't have any atmosphere. Yet i'm completly at home. Like a shrimp bred to live at the bottom of the world. I'm the product of millions of years of evolution and this is the only place suited to me. More than a little ironic I thought.
Back at the frontlines though. People talk to me, opinions are voiced. It's like a garden party of people come to see my brain. All sitting, chatting, drinking champange in my head. I can't get any thinking done.
So I leave. I get a few hours before the planet completly plummets into it's sun. Which is enough for me. I get my thought in order.
Then it's back to the real world.
I sit and listen to people complain in group therapy sessions. That's all they do. All they ever do. Seeminlgy all people are meant to do. They pull up chairs. Making the squeeking sound that everybody hates. Up come the chairs. Make a circle eveybody.
Now tell me what's bothing you.
And people talk for hours. People can do this. Talk for hours about themselves. But say nothing. Anybody can sit for hours and talk about their problems and how tough their life is compared to yours. But really, they don't want to be helped. Deep down they really don't want the miracle drug solution, because they enjoy the attention. But when it becomes someone else's turn. They tune out.
Much as I'm doing.
The best part.
The best part of living in a looney bin (my dad used to call them that, and it stuck),
Is that the drugs are free. Now may see this as the greatest thing ever to grace your pitiful life, but imagine this.
Imagine, you're confined to a cell all day long. Now I know, if you're high, that wouldn't bother you too much. Ok.
But imagine you then had to come out of the cell for hour at a time. Sit with nutjobs and talk about your feelings in a way that the good doctors thought was convincing.Or they took away your drugs.
Yep, took away your drugs. Shocking I know, they just cut you off.
So I pretend, I talk about how my life is improving, despite my illness.
What bollocks, my illness controls my life. And in every waking moment, i'm reminded of it.
Then you get free time.
Sounds like fun?
Nope. You get to wander around you slightly larger cage and talk to even nuttier jobs. Despite how repulive that may sound, I feels just like normal life. Just the same cage with a different coat of paint..
If you have enough money, you can move up a cage. But what does that allow? A bigger car, a slightly larger house to slowly decompose in.
Morbid, I know. But I can't help the way life fails us. Who can?
No matter how devoted to a cause you are. No matter now inspired you could be on a topic. There's allways somebody crazier with more money and power on the other side just waiting fot you to fail so they can make an example of you to the other supplicant masses.
But enough about you. You're less interesting then me anyway.
I'm sitting in therapy, talking about my feelings and how they are helping me come to terms with my illness and die peacefully.
My head lolls back and I cast my best insane look around the room. All the seats are filled today. All seems in order except the skeleton sitting across the room from me.
With one eye.
Now there is a story behind that.
This skeleton, it followsme around everywhere. I think it's an it anyway. As it's a skeleton, I find it hard to tell the difference. Plus, I don't want to get too close.
One day, I was lying in bed. Pretending to pretend to sleep and,
Flash,
i'm sitting in a doctor's office. He's asking me if I take drugs.
How could somebody honestly not notice? Or mabye he realises already. His bald head is dully reflecting the light in the room. And what a small room. The way I remember it, his office was like a sardine tin without fish. So small the door hits the desk when it opens all the way. My eye starts to twitch and I try to concentrate on the doctor. Not that he commands respect. He seems like a sad little man. I could imagine him working for decades to get to this point. And he's sitting behind his massive desk in a shoebox office thinking to himself,
I want to paint.
But then it's too late.
My eye feels strange. Like i'm sitting on a nerve.
One of my eyes starts to twirl in it's socket, like in a circle and I struggle to keep my cool. I squeak out a no, never, to the doctor and amazingly he seems to believe me. Or he wants me outside quickly because I make him uneasy.
How could he not notice?
I can't think about anything else. I can feel the pressure building behind my eye. It must be bulging out past my nose now.
He asks me a question about my family history, or some ridiclous question like that.
I can't hold it any longer.
My eye lid peels back and my eye rockets out into the room with a loud schloop sound. Blood sprays across the room and covers the doctor. I yelp and sink into the chair.
The pain should be immense, my fucking eye, is gone.
How could he have not noticed?
Not even wiping his face, he waffles on about severe this and genetic that.
I'm not it as much pain as you'd think. I think it might be over, fuck, he can have my eye if i can just leave.
But, no, it's never that easy.
I spot my eye. Crawling up the doctor's leg.
I catch my breath and stifle a yelp. It's making slow but steady progress.
It's reached his knee.
I can see the malice in it's eye and it gazes up at the doctor's face.
Do I warn him? Don't want to look crazy.
The doctor looks at me gravely and asks if I have anybody to take care of me.
Fuck that, I think, at least I don't have killer eye balls eye balling me.
The dripping, rippling mass slides onward towards his shirt.
How does it even climb?
No time for that! This could be a matter of life or death.
I'm squirming in my seat, making childish noise and gesturing towards his shirt. He looks at m
e sternly, as if waiting for an answer.
The eyeball reaches his collar.
And stops. I shoot to the edge of my seat and stare at the eye. I can almost feel the eye contemplating it's next move.
The doctor is staring at me with his eyebrows up. I say yes. It seems to be the answer he wanted because he's started citing textbooks and training manuals again.
I look back to his collar and the eye is gone.
I quickly scream and go back to looking interested. The doctor shoots into the air and backs his chair up against a pot plant.
Spinning around in my chair, I still can't see the eye. Shit like that just doesn't go away that easily. The doctor still looks like he's about to cry but he soldiers on.
I'm sliding out of the chair and trying to remain inconspicious as I glide across the room. I hope the doctor doesn't notice but he's stopped talking.
It working my way under his desk when I see it, the eye. It's unsteadily dripping down the light fixture. How did it get on the roof?
No time to think about that. It's dangling just above the doctor.
I'm staring at the doctor.
There will be more at some point
please help me massage my ego my offering your opinions..
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