personal entropy
��������� �����[i am colorblind]lauren's email weighing on my mind. camus. the stranger. mersault. i am not a liminal man.
the emails. the flooding thoughts. a bare room, blinds drawn. [i am ready, i am ready, i am ready, i am taffy stuck and tongue tied]
these are the black moments, the bile-black moments where my stomach inverts. something about personal entropy. [pull me out from inside]
"he's just a fucking person, another fucking person, no better than anyone, no more complicated or less complicated, seriously. just one of the masses, messed up and trying to find happiness"
i can't be as scrupulously honest as i want to be.
i just want to be a hero of my own story, you know? i don't want to be one who plunges into traffic or black-hearted or cruel or angry. i want to be liminal, i want to be the one who knows what he believes in. i need to be that one. open the window a bit. [i am ready] but i keep falling backwards.
"He seemed so certain about everything, didn't he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman's head. He wasn't even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man. Whereas it looked as if I was the one who'd come up emptyhanded. But I was sure about me, about everything, surer than he could ever be, sure of my life and sure of the death I had waiting for me. Yes, that was all I had. But at least I had as much of a hold on it as it had on me. I had been right, I was still right, I was always right. I had lived my life as one way and I could just as well have lived it another. I had done this and I hadn't done that. And so? It was as if I had waited all this time for this moment and for the first light of this dawn to be vindicated. Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew why. So did he. Throughout the whole absurd life I'd lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living. What did other people's deaths or a mother's love matter to me; what did his God or the lives people choose or the fate they think they elect matter to me when we're all elected by the same fate, me and billions of privileged people like him who also called themselves my brothers? Couldn't he see, couldn't he see that? Everybody was privileged." oh camus. mersault.
jason mraz, the remedy. [i won't worry my life away] sitting in front of the house-shaped movie cinema theatre. with jason in the car. the song playing out from the radiowaves, unstretching, unfurling. i need indifference.
"wow, i've never known someone to hate grocery stores so passionately."
"meet chris," anthony says, motioning to me, "he's passionate in his hatred for everything."
a laugh, a general laugh. i'm watching the green-jar candle on the edge of the coffee-table, willing it hatefully to fall and shatter to a billion bits on the floor. [this catastrophe, dance with me, 'cause if you've got the poison, i've got the remedy] the poison. is deep inside of me like a crazy thorn. thorn fences.
oh my jesus christ this needs to stop right now. [you can turn off the sun but i'm still gonna shine, and then i'll tell you what - ]
i'm tired of poetry, i told lauren in an email. i'm tired of words, tired of communication, fluency. poetry fakes it. puts a veneer on reality. romanticizes it. life shouldn't be made the subject of art, the subject of romance. it's cruel and harsh and should be put to death like hitler. head blown off in a small bunker. personal entropy. devouring yourself from within. "you think too much, stop thinking, you need to get over it, you need you need you need"
if i wanted a personal advice machine i'd build one, call it the Gypsy and then stride down my own goddamn camino real. (oh my christ i'm doing it again)
for right now, i turn into a ghost and fold myself into a small corner.