Tuesday, November 10, 2009

waking up in the morning

There is a house on a road with other houses. A man lives in this house, and there are other people who live in the other houses. This house looks much like the others, with white walls and gray shutters. The trees are alive with the sound of birds, and many of the people on the street have already left for work. Their cars are no longer parked in their driveway. The car’s wheels may be spinning quickly down a packed highway, or they could already be nicely at rest next to other cars in the parking garage at The Office.
The man will also need to go to work like the other people. His car will need to be forced to consume explosive refined petroleum in order to force the pistons of its engine to pump in order to spin the drive shaft that will turn the wheels. A car needs a driver to drive in this day and age, and a driver needs to press the gas in order to make the car go, and press the brake in order to make the car stop when necessary. A driver needs to have an understanding of where they are driving and how to get there. They need to follow, to a certain degree, the rules and regulations that have been assigned to cars on the road. The driver will operate the steering wheel with his hands, checking his mirrors as he goes, and the turning of the steering wheel will direct the car in the right direction.
The car at this house is sitting in the driveway. The sun is casting the cars shadow against the garage door, the folding segments of the door fracture the shadow into pieces. I know I have been to this street before and I am almost certain that I know who this man is in this house, but something does not seem right. The color of the grass looks different, here, now. And the sun feels so hot against my skin. I never have sweated like this before. Well, maybe once, but that was in the middle of a terrible fever.

The man woke up in the morning like he always does.

The sun hot rays where piercing in through the man’s window onto his sleeping body. It had been shining on him for a while and sleeping under the covers the man grew incredibly hot. His body oozed sweat, and his mouth seeped thick drool over crusty lips.
Electronically created noise fills the room and the man is all of a sudden in a new familiar world. This is his room, his bed, his house, yet something feels off, and he cant seem to focus. The alarm went off at the correct time on the cellular telephone that was under the man’s pillow. The man’s arm reached over in a practiced motion to press the snooze button, lifting the phone to his face, the word “snooze” looks foreign as if it was written in a different language. His body is covered in hot sweat and his shirt is sticking to his chest. His arms making his hands grip the bottom of his shirt and then they pull it off, over his head. The shirt gets thrown at random into some part of the room. Immediately upon placing his head back onto the pillow he is trust back into the world of dreams.
He is aboard a train with a beautiful woman. They are traveling to meet a man about a puzzle that he wrote about to them in a letter. The letter is in the man’s pocket folded up next to an old photograph, and the mans hand keeps reaching for it but never gets the courage to take it out. There was one clue for the puzzle in the letter and the man keeps trying to figure out what it meant, yet he can’t seem to recall what the clue was. All he has in his head is a swarm of bees that rattle against the inside of his skull. He begins to hope that they don’t have stingers.
The alarm of the phone under the pillow does of and the man is awake drenched in sweat. His stomach is screaming for food. Barbed wire is creeping its way around his digestive system. How can one put food in a stomach that hurts so much? How come hunger is exactly what makes me not want to eat? The man takes the phone in his hand and presses the snooze button, again the letters in the word “snooze” seem to writhe and move about on the screen. They look like gibberish symbols that are connected to no signifier, yet he knows what it means. He knows it means he will get more nine minute lapses back into the dream world, and with every alarm he curses the fact that he was driven again back into the waking world. The real world is full of hot sweat and an angry stomach.
Yet the dreams return easily, as they do most mornings, and the man is back again on the train he was traveling on before but now their destination is different. Now the woman that he was sitting next to is gone and he is in a room full of men in black suits. They adjust their ties with their hands and sway back and forth with the rocking train. The alarm goes off again and he is suddenly aware of the large pool of drool that his face is resting in.
“God damn,” he says, “It’s time for me to get out of bed.” The man stares at the ceiling seeing nothing. That is the funny thing about staring the harder that you end up looking the less that you end up being able to see. He throws his bodies weight off of the bed and is welcomed into the chilly air of the room. He leaves the windows open at night, liking the fresh air more then he dislikes the noise of the street. He has gotten used to listening to the hushed rustling of the leaves in the room as he falls asleep.
The tiles on the bathroom floor feel cold against the soles of his bare feet. The man’s urine gurgles in the toilet bowl as the man urinates for the first time that day. The color of this urine will determine whether he has drunk enough water the pervious day and night. The water in the toilet bowl turns a dark cloudy orange, and the man sighs. I will have to drink more water today, he thinks. He imagines sticking his mouth under the faucet in the sink and drinking gulp after gulp of water. Maybe I should take a shower. The man smells his armpits, and seems satisfied with the scent. The smell of his body odor fills his sinuses in a way that nothing else can, and the warm rich scent blooms throughout his head. This smell is mine, he thinks and salivates.
This man does not always feel as though he belongs, and tends to be skeptical of most things. He long ago stopped shampooing his hair, and has experience no ill effect. He does not wear deodorant, and most people do not think that he smells bad, though sometimes he does when the period between showers increases.
Hopefully there is some coffee in the pot. He turns the knobs on the shower and cold-water sprays out of the showerhead. He sticks his hand under the stream of water and waits until it is hot enough for him to get in. He is standing naked in the bathroom his arm reaching into the shower, feeling the water. His eyes staring blankly at the tiled wall, as the tiles move and sway, rippling patterns playing forming and disappearing along invisible pathways. His stomach pangs with pain, and he sits down on the toilet seat, his arm still in the shower feeling the temperature of the water. I need to take a shower and then eat some food. He thinks about the container of plain yogurt that he has sitting in the refrigerator. He imagines it in there with the light on, yet the yogurt is currently sitting in darkness, the door closed. The water is hot enough and his body is absorbing its heat as his sits on the floor of the tub. His head is under the water and between his knees, which are pulled up towards his chest. His hands are in his hair and he lets the water wash over him for a while.
“I’m not ready,” he says. “I’m not ready.” Water runs into his mouth and he turns his head up to let more water into him. His spits the water out and blows his nose. Black brown snot is shot into his hands and he looks at it closely before placing it in a stream of water that is running from his body down towards the drain. He blows his nose again and again until it hurts forcing as much mucus out as possible. His sinuses are always clogged. He is always aware of this pressure in his head, behind his eyes and snaking through his entire skull. Now he begins to force himself to cough. The stream in the air from the hot water has loosened the mucus in his lungs just enough for him to cough up large brown and green chunks. With the phlegm in his mouth he bits into it, tasting its rotten taste, feeling sand like grit as he bites into it. He spits it onto the floor and watches as its gelatinous mass struggles to get through the small holes of the drain. It looks like semen from some mutant person, like semen that had the power to mutate the body of the person that it entered, the brown and green sperm moving through tissue and burrowing into neural tissue.
In the kitchen the man is crouched in front of the refrigerator. He is now wearing semi-clean clothing and is searching for something to press against the clenching in his stomach. Yogurt, a carrot, and a banana, go into his mouth, are chewed and swallowed. I wish eating didn’t make me nauseas in the morning. I am a bad eater.
Walking back into his bedroom the man notices a piece of paper on the floor. The look like they were written on a typewriter. The man picks up the piece of paper and reads what it says.

One summer Emily and I used to go to my grandmother’s cottage a lot. We would go on slow canoe rides around the edges of the pound. Sometimes we would stop at this big rock and read. I remember once we went deep into the cattails to see what we could find. The cattails spread apart as the front of the canoe pushed into them. In order to paddle you needed to dig into the roots of the cattails and push off. Moving through cattails one would be better off with a long stick. We are following a blue heron that we startled as we turned the corner. That day we past beyond the barrier set up to stop the spread of the invasive weeds, and had stopped to smoke a joint by a dock that was covered in piles of this invasive plant. The heron had flown into the cattails and we thought that if we pushed through we might have a chance to sneak up on him.
The cattails scratch up against the side of the canoe as we push through their long stalks, the spread apart with the splitting pressure of the front of our boat. I am sitting in the back. I am always sitting in the back. In the back of the canoe you are the one who is responsible for controlling the direction that the canoe goes in. There really is no reason for Emily to be paddling, so I am in the back pushing off against the bottom, pushing off against cattail roots. We slowly slide through the tall stalks, and ahead of us is a strange smell.
We break into a clearing amongst the walls of cattails and find ourselves looking at a pile of rotting plant matter and mud. It comes out of the water in the clearing with intention, showing signs of forceful construction. We didn’t know what to do when all of a sudden the heron flaps its wings hard. The heron’s wings push with all of their force against the air giving the animal’s large body the ability to separate itself from the grip of the ground. The heron flies closely over our heads and moves to a spot slightly away from us, towards the middle of this little alcove that we are in. I turn the canoe around and push our way out of the walls of tall cattail stalks. We eat our sandwiches in the shade, and then continue our exploration if this little cove.


While reading the piece of paper the man is overcome with vivid images. They feel like memories coming back to him from somewhere far off, somewhere forgotten. Did I write this? The man thinks. He does not have a typewriter so how could he have? I man stands in the middle of his bedroom. The piece of paper is held firmly in his hand. The sun is shinning on his face and all he can think about is how hot it is, but somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear the noise of cattails scrapping against the side of a canoe. He can remember the sandwich that he got that day, and remembers eating it with Emily. But who was Emily anyway? No matter how hard the man tried he couldn’t remember which Emily he would have gone on a canoe trip with. He could barely remember knowing any Emilys at all.
“I need to go to work,” the man says out loud to the room. Maybe with the windows down while driving I will be able to cool down. He thinks about the cool wind against his skin as he and his car move quickly down the highway. The radio is on and he is listening to The News. More people are dieing somewhere else in the world. I should get myself an iced coffee on the way to The Office, he thinks. “Alright already,” he says as he walks out of his bedroom, down the stairs, out his front door, across his lawn, to his car. He opens the car door like he always does, and slides comfortably into his seat. There is a buzzing in the car, and the man watches as a bee bounces off of his windshield. He shuts his door, puts on his seatbelt, puts the key in the ignition and turns on the car. He rolls down his windows and sits in his car in his driveway. He looks at his street around him; everything looks just like it always does. He puts the car into reverse and pulls out of the driveway.
His heart beats heavily with anticipation for the excitement of driving fast in his car on the highway. The sun beats down heavily onto his left side. His armpits begin to sweat.

So what is all this rambling nonesense anyways?

So i decided to put all of my rating nonsensical writing on the internet. I am not sure if this is a good idea, but i am doing it anyways.
clay and tom told me to, that is my excuse.
maybe someone will read this crap?
The stone in the field looks towards the mountain in the distance. Perhaps, long ago a glacier tore it off its place on the mountain. Perhaps, it was moved during the drying of an ancient sea. Perhaps, it never was a mountain, but nonetheless it continues to stare. It remembers little that is certain of its birth, possessing instead self-inscribed mythical legends of churning magma. Legends that are connected in its mind with a stirring sub-sonic groan, a noise that seems to linger at the edge of hearing, and speaks of slow deep movements in the earths mantle. It was from this ancient noise that the stones name was spoken, and its body was thrust from the unified paradise towards a cold world where it too becomes cold. The body that was once one with a primordial sea, living on heat alone, turns hard and begins its eternal death. Once it was a section of a huge water table. Once it only lay with others like its self, bodies stacked for miles. They spoke to each other in shushed voices, as they listened also to the sounds above. They heard rushes of water, and the sounds of roots moving forward.
This stone basked in moonlight. It feels the absence of former pieces of its now fractured body. The stone looks across the field at the mountain in the distance, a cliff face catching its gaze. Its fractured edges tingle at the thought of becoming one with the cliff, finding its place next to the others.
The field where this rock lays is repeatedly cut during the summer to make hay. A tractor drives back and forth over its surface, fallowing a generally repeated pattern. Sometimes the tractor equipment runs over the rock and scratches its surface with metal forks. The stone doesn’t mind though, just like it doesn’t mind the rain or the lichen. Just like it doesn’t mind expanding ice filling its cracks. The stone likes to watch the tractor, and gaze off with its driver at the changing clouds. Sometimes the stone even prays for rain, prays for the cooling splashes, and the slow disintegration of its mineral skin.
The stone sits in the field and stares at the mountain soaked in moonlight. It hears in the deep the rumbling of an unspoken voice and whispers itself the happy reminder that one day it may return to where it truly came. It feels it’s self sinking into the soil. It feels the movement of the earth worm pushing
I don’t think I really ever knew when I started to draw the monsters. I think it must have started as soon as I knew how to pick up a fat crayon in my small hands. I hold the crayon tighter than I probably should, my fingers clenching against the rough paper that is wrapped around the wax. I press down and move my arm, in order to move my hand, which causes the crayon to move across the paper. The crayons tip breaks into fragments as it moves across the grainy fibrous surface of the paper. It is due to friction, friction combined with applied downward pressure and kinetic horizontal movement. On the paper in front of me I was making jagged lines. As I continued to draw lines, continued to gain control over my motor functions, the jagged forms grew in complexity and began to begin to attempt the world around me. The paper became a place where my mind could attempt to show itself, and as a reaction my mind created a sheet of paper for itself. When I would look at the page the image would grow out of the movement of my hand and the invisible lines that formed and changed as the pen moved across the paper, showing potential paths for lines, potential forms to come out of the chaos. All a drawing is is lines on a pieces of paper.
But who even cares about my childhood anyways. Why do I even care about it? Why the hell do I feel the need to at all times figure out what is going on in my mind, and how what has happened to me in the past as made me the person I am today? How will I ever live in the present id all that I am doing is thinking about the past?
The idea of living in the present is a myth anyways, since all we ever have to access the world is out past, our constructions, our webs, our all of these words, all of the fucking same idea over and over again.

Why is it that I all of a sudden am again consumed with the urge to write? Perhaps it is because I started again, and that was really all that it took in the first place.

I am a one hit wonder; I am stuck in this fucking loop where all I do is think about the same fucking garbage. Yeah, ok, so we all know that we are constructed beings, we all know that our past is having a great affect on who we are today. But I mean come on, do we all really know this or is this one of those really big question and I am stuck in it like someone would be stuck in a whirl pool.
I am sitting at the edge of the lake. The breeze causes bumping and reflecting ripples to spread across the surface of the water. It has been a long day. I think about my house. I think about her walking back and forth in the kitchen. The walk wasn’t that far and it was nice to get out in the fresh air for a while. I spend so much time inside during the week, so much time sitting at that desk, walking back and forth between my computer, the water cooler, the coffee machine, the bathroom. At lunch I generally go down to that place on the corner, their sandwiches aren’t really that good, but the place has a nice feel and its close. The roast beef isn’t that much either, which is nice. But here my the lake I finally can relax, finally can take a couple of breaths and just have a seat, I no longer have to care what shows my boss likes to watch, all I need to think about is nothing.

One summer Emily and I used to go to my grandmother’s cottage a lot. We would go on slow canoe rides around the edges of the pound. Sometimes we would stop at this big rock and read. I remember once we went deep into the cattails to see what we could find. The cattails spread apart as the front of the canoe pushed into them. In order to paddle you needed to dig into the roots of the cattails and push off. Moving through cattails one would be better off with a long stick. We are following a blue heron that we startled as we turned the corner. That day we past beyond the barrier set up to stop the spread of the invasive weeds, and had stopped to smoke a joint by a dock that was covered in piles of this invasive plant. The heron had flown into the cattails and we thought that if we pushed through we might have a chance to sneak up on him. The cattails scratch up against the side of the canoe as we push through their long stalks, the spread apart with the splitting pressure of the front of our boat. I am sitting in the back. I am always sitting in the back. In the back of the canoe you are the one who is responsible for controlling the direction that the canoe goes in. There really is no reason for Emily to be paddling, so I am in the back pushing off against the bottom, pushing off against cattail roots. We slowly slide through the tall stalks, and ahead of us is a strange smell. We break into a clearing amongst the walls of cattails and find ourselves looking at a pile of rotting plant matter and mud. It comes out of the water in the clearing with intention, showing signs of forceful construction. We didn’t know what to do when all of a sudden the heron flaps its wings hard. The heron’s wings push with al of their force against the air giving the animals large body the ability to separate itself from the grip of the ground. The heron flies closely over our heads and moves to a spot slightly away from us, towards the middle of this little alcove that we are in. I turn the canoe around and push our way out of the walls of tall cattail stalks. We eat our sandwiches in the shade, and then continue our exploration if this little cove.

I don’t quite know why I just wrote about this. I think maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have been thinking about Emily a lot these days.
But the thing about it is that I never really feel like I can get there if I want to. The whole thing ends up feeling like a big sham where I am just doing this whole thing and not even really making any sense at all even now I am trying really hard well how can you try but I am in some way making absurd sentences that just ramble this way and that oh how meta of you Alexander to try to think about the act of writing while writing.

It has become clear to me that I have experienced secondary trauma, but at the same time I have no idea what this really means. I understand that I have become in contact with a word that I really have no comprehension of. To be honest I live in a very naively constructed universe, that is based around these dumb ideas that I there is some sort of good left in the world. But what I have ended up finding is that nothing is really that great and all and all everyone is just looking out for their own well being. But I don’t feel like this is what I am doing. Maybe I am just very bitter and need to learn how to be happy again. But I really have never felt as though I was as happy as I could be.
I just wish for one day I could try to see what it was like to be one of everyone else. I really want to know what it would be like to wake up in the morning and know what it was that you wanted to do with your day. You knew that you needed to go to work, and while at work you needed to accomplish a certain number of tasks, and impress that one secretary that you find mildly attractive with some witty comment. She may be only mildly attractive but she is one of the best looking people that you will see all week so you make your time with her count. When you went home you would sit down on the couch after putting a microwavable meal in the microwave. You would turn on the television and watch your favorite actors play your favorite roles in your favorite television show. Television has exactly what you want, and you want to be like the people on television. When you go to sleep at night sometimes you have unsettling dreams, dreams about things that you don’t fully understand, and maybe you wake up in a cold sweat, but in the morning everything is going to alright and your just going to drink that cup a coffee and get into their.
I am a man constricted by words, even when I am not writing and not talking my mind still thinks in words. There are parts of my mind that are definitely beyond language, where images rule and visceral embodied sensations provide the glue necessary for connecting everything else.
I am not quite sure if I still have the ability to write.
I am not quite sure that I really know who I am. I think I have an idea of what it is that makes me up, but what I don’t really have a grasp of is whom it is that is calling the shots, doing all of the analysis. Who can ever have a chance to look at the one who looks?
What I really should be doing is working on writing this essay that I am supposed to write.
Did I just jinx myself? Did I just curse myself my saying that I had finally.

“You may pay for the whole seat but your only going to need to edge.”
There are many times where I feel as though every thing that I do is wrong. That no matter how many ways I try to put things together, no matter how many times I try to find the true patterns that I know in my bones are there, at the last moment they slip away. It is like that word that I have in my head that I know and can feel and it is very important. It has everything to do with everything, but it is held in a place that cannot speak. I know this word as a jumble, something known but immediately forgotten. It is associated with a collection of colors. How ironic, a color blind person whose mind is directly constructed around a series of colors. Rich vibrant colors that reek of nostalgia. It has everything to do with the fact that I don’t think I will ever really be a man.

For me becoming a man means that I have to become convinced that I have a concrete grasp on reality. It means that I need to become convinced that I can know the right answers and have the right to exert power that I have in order to shape the world the way I want it. It means giving into THE LAW. Letting myself become something other than the alienated being that I am. A child is a child because they do not understand the world. The process of growing up is creating a system of filtering barriers that create a virtual sense of comprehension and understanding. These systems come as a result of evolutionarily designed trends in the brain, experiences, and a large element of chaotic misconnections. Our finely structures prisons are based on dust.

Someday the sun will explode
Someday the ground will crack open underneath out feet and consume us
Someday while fucking we will think of our mothers
Someday while fucking we fill feel shame

When it comes down to it, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, sex is an important part of it. Not even necessarily sex but fucking. There has never truly been a point in my life where I have had a good relationship with fucking, with sex, with making love.
When I was younger I was young and na├»ve. I did as I pleased and had a fairly pleasant outlook on things. I may not have been the happiest of people, because I had a hard time listening to people tell me what to do, and I felt as though I was smarter and older than all the crap that the teachers wanted to put me through in school. I was ready to take my education into my own hands and tried. I read all the books that I wanted to, and did a lot of my homework. Most of the stuff wasn’t even really hard enough for me so I could bullshit my way though a lot of things. But I still had the aching need to fit in and to have people like me.
I think that I consider that I had a happy childhood because that it what everyone told me. I know that I must have been happy. I remember being able to doing things with such ease and I had so many things that I enjoyed. But I think that this is more likely due to the fact that I was young and had no desire to really fit into the bigger world. I did and I wanted to have friends, but I still had not yet fully developed the ability to repress myself.
Children don’t know what is right and wrong and they learn it from the world around them. There are certain things I am sure are connected to
Sixth grade was when I told my first lie about doing something with a girl. I told the kids that I have made out with a girl for three hours at camp in her tent. This was a lie but I kept it going and it made me feel better about myself and made people think I was cooler.
I only ended up kissing a girl during a game of truth or dare. I thought the girl was “hot” but she wasn’t really that into it. She stuck her warm wet tongue into my mouth and it writhed in there like a slug. I enjoyed the warm wetness but also was grossed out by the whole thing.
The next girl I kissed was in


But the real thing now that I need to do is write my paper. I need to go back and look at the quotes and come up with a thesis statement.
You really havnt been working that long so its not that big of a deal but you need to get to work
All that you have done so far is bring in quotes that you liked.
I know that you want to turn this paper into something very complicated but really you need to focus on one idea and come up with a simple argument that you can easily back up with quotes. This does not have to be the mountain that you make it out to be.
But that is part of the whole thing. I used to be certain about things. I used to have all sort of opinions on matters, opinions that were backed by emotion and clever arguments. But this didn’t get me anywhere and all that I ever really got out of it was feeling like I was smarter then someone else. As I learned more and moved away from just acting like I knew everything and how to do everything I stopped needing to get into those arguments. Or when I did I began to take to other side, the one that I don’t believe in, not to tell the other person that I am smarter than them, but instead to destroy the whole stupid fucking game, the whole my cock is bigger than your cock game. Because that is all that it is, when you have to take an opinion on something you are giving into the absurd notion that you could be right about what you are talking about, that somehow you bullshit made up system of understanding is better than someone else’s. But is this still not me trying hard to be smarter then other people? To show that, haha, I have found out that this whole thing is a farce. But is that not just another dumb ass opinion, even if it is steeped in contradictions and all that it still is and opinion that is based on some absurd system of beliefs. Yet maybe since I have resigned myself to this idea and resigne myself to the fact that I really will only be able to deal with the world through what is my self constructed mind system.
But oh my goodness if only I could concentrate on what I need to. So that I don’t end up spewing bullshit all over these pages.
But who knows maybe I can turn this into something interesting.


Ok
Now lets read the quotes I got and try to come up with a thesis


My problem is that I just keep looking for quotes
Maybe for my next essay I need to figure out a different way to do things
It has been such a long time since we have seen each other. When I close my eyes at night I can barely call forth her image, instead I am left with a fading shifting form that makes me yearn for more. I try to think about the last time we were together but nothing comes to mind, nothing of importance. I remember that I dropped something between your seat in the car, we were in a hurry so I anxiously groped

I am a man of half ideas.
Unfinished sentences

“If we were able to take as the finest allegory of simulation Borges tale where the cartographers of the Empire draw up a map so detailer that it ends up exactly covering the territory (but where the decline of the Empire sees this map become frayed and finally ruined, a few shreds still discernible in the deserts – the metaphysical beauty of this ruined abstraction, bearing witness to an Imperial pride and rotting like a carcass, returning to the substance of the soil, rather as an aging double ends up being confused with the real thing) – then this fable has come full circle for us, and now has nothing but the discrete charm of second-order simulacra.
Abstraction today is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal. The territory no longer precedes the map, nor survives it. Henceforth, it is the map that precedes the territory – precession of simulacra – it is the map the engenders the territory and if we were to revive the fable today, it would be the territory whose shreds are slowly rotting across the map, whose vestiges subsist here and there, in the deserts which are no longer those of the Empire, but our own. The desert of the real itself.

Why did I write down this quote? Where was I going with this idea?
Last night I rode my bike out into my favorite field. It is slightly away from the others, and its path is less trotten. I ride my bike fast through tall wet grass and clover. The light from the moon confronts my body and my limbs shake. My bike is on the ground and my back is steeping in dew. The stars desire to pierce through my body. I am a boy who is not quite a man lying on the grass staring at the all-consuming sky. I can’t bring myself to look at the moon. The moon thrusts its way out of the darkness, fueled by reflected light, blazing secondary sun. The moon’s light eats stars and I fear it wants me too. I fear that the moon will come down and tear out my disintegrating stomach, come down and take away the heart that is beating hard in my chest. I look into the space between stars. I want to be lost in that true darkness. I want to be adrift within the void. A man in a space ship, left only with his own thoughts.
The grass is cold and the air is cold. The muscles in my legs fire off at random into fits of spasms. I think I hear someone in the distance walking. I think I hear trigs breaking in the woods to my left, towards the moon. In the dark I can finally see clearly. All day eyes are attacked with thick layers of information. Indescribable possibilities of colors, endless variations in hew. My eyes feel more at ease in the dark. Color is no longer in the equation. But the moon makes things glow. The moon makes turns normal things upside down. The light of the moon is filled with the tiny insects that make up darkness. The swarms of specs the swim in the dark of corners or under chairs. The light of the moon makes everything covered in dark insects. These creatures have a way of bringing inanimate things to life, they add an uncertainty to things that opens them up the imagination. The grass around me is swarming with them, as if it was covered in a blanket, causing into to sway and glimmer, move and speak. I have to look away. I have to stand up. I have to walk around. I have to get my legs up and moving so they stop their incessant shuttering. I walk in circles and my feet get wet.
The me, that is myself, has been overtaken by a primitive mind. I see the dark shadows of spirits in the black forest. Bloodlust fills by body. I turn to the moon and my muscles clench. My fists become rocks and my arms wounds like springs. I am ready to fight the invisible demons. I look at the moon and my legs become weak. My knees wobble; my calves clench, and my thighs vibrate. I can taste the moon on my tongue. It tastes like iron, like blood. It finds its way between my teeth tingling my gums. I want to see the fire that roars behind everything. I want to tear down the sky and thrust myself over the edge. I inhale deep the light of the moon, fill me with its cold metal. My body is ridged and ready to pounce, but I am not myself. In me pumps the blood from an ancient line of men. Men whose lives were lived on a day-to-day basis. Men who hunted animals with sharpened stones. I look away from the moon and search the ground for my bike. My heart beats hard, but I take deep breaths. Inhaling large lungful of cold air. As I bike home, the moon behind me I think of the seventh commandment, I wish it didn’t have to exist, but we are still animals.