Ellipses (...) (...)

I'm not sure what to think about this whole thing. It really doesn't feel permanent at all. It feels like, hey, I'll be home in a couple of days... when I know in reality that is not going to happen. My last few days with T.S. were... I don't even know how to describe it. They made me not want to leave at all.

Needless to say, the fantasies of Michael have been replaced. Not really replaced, but they're kind of competing with these others as of now. I'm really hoping to get a job at this trendy diner by my house that's open 24 hours a day. And I'm going to start looking for a library and checking out the scene here in the Bend pretty soon. I'll also check out the train system, and maybe go to Chicago for a day or something. I don't know. I think I'm just really trying to keep my mind occupied, and it's quite difficult. This city is not at all what I want it to be. For being just a mini-Chicago, it should be more....ummm, hip? Is that the word?

I really need to figure out this camera situation also. That will give me something else to do.

I'm not at all unhappy, just missing You.

Equilibrium

Feeling pretty good right now, and have for the past few weeks. I am absolutely content with my life and my plans at this point.
Celibacy is... fulfilling. I am done searching and waiting. This is my life, and I want it to be one that I can look back on and smile. I no longer have to look forward to ____.


I have become myself.

Matt dropped dirty for his last probation meeting, and is now travelling. He called me last night from somewhere in Ohio. He's already hitchhiked further than I did on my entire trip. I'm beginning to wonder what would've happened if I would have just gone on that trip by myself. No Amtrak, no bullshit. I think that if I tried again, I would make it. I get this whole different feeling about travelling now. It's not so much of a fear as it was before, maybe it's hope?

Crossroads

It's amazing how the tiny little inhibitions can quickly turn into my basis of decision making. The scabs have been torn back open, despite taking it with a grain of salt. I really do know what unconditional love is now.


I feel very lost right now. I just don't know what to do with my life. I know that I do not need to have everything figured out, but I do need a goal. I don't think just waking up is a big enough goal.

My options are:

Stay here in Fort Wayne, go to college, room up with Sarah and Small Hobbit.

Work to save up enough money to live in Boston, live with Michael, maybe go to college, depending on if I have enough time in the day after working to make rent and trying to maintain a relationship with him.

Move to South Bend, go to IUSB or something like it, get to know my dad.

Save up money here, not much, find someone here in town or the whereabouts to travel with, and be a drifter.

This is what happens to people when they don't have a rolemodel. If I could meet someone who was 25 years old and genuinely happy, interested in art, and remembers what it was like--I would take their advice. I really just want some guidance. All of these things seem possible to me, they all seem like they could harness my happiness, and I could learn a great deal from any of them.

Is reality subject to interpretation? or would It exist despite Our interpretations of It?

Did God (or the Zar of the Universe or Alah or Our Creator) create all of This, including Us, or did We create the idea of God just to make Ourselves more comfortable in a lonely universe?


I'm writing this not for answers, but simply because I wonder what kinds of things in life lead people to believe either way.

My crew manager Andrew let us off 4 hours early today, but instead of actually going home we had to endure his lame attempts at trying to make us feel sorry for him the entire time. We rode around in the van while he pretty much told us the inside scoop on Erie Construction's canvassing team. He says they're going to shut down the whole thing, because our sales suck in comparison to the Ohio and Michigan teams. I don't understand why he is so paranoid about it, and at the same time, he claims to be able to write 20 leads per day and is just not trying. The thought crossed my mind about paying him to give me the leads and sign them, but I realized that it's probably more sensible to just go out and find another "filler" job. Time is running out, and I hate always being the new guy, but in a few months it won't even matter.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I'm trying to decide what the hell does matter. It seems to me that I've been brainwashed into thinking that as long as you don't have kids before you're 25 and you go to college, your life will be easy. Is that true? I think not. If college really doesn't matter in the Grand Scheme of things, what is the point? I already know what it is. I have been trying to get this point over to Andrew for 2 weeks now. I want to go to college to learn so I can get better at art, my passion, my favorite thing. He seems to think that I will be unhappy in my decisions no matter what if I don't follow Jesus and bow to the cross. It just irritates the piss out of me. Can people really be that ignorant? He's 32 years old, and knows less about the world than an 18 year old little girl. People seem to think that the actual God is really that dogmatic. Do they really think that the actual God gives a flying shit whether I believe in something that is completely corrupt and was meant to (maybe) teach some very evil people a lesson hundreds of years ago?

Even if Jesus is the son of God, lets say: Would the real God understand if now, in the 21st century when all of Jesus's followers (or roughly 60%, I'd say) are inundated with their BS "You're goin' to hell, Faggot",(we) people choose not to believe that they are a reflection of a real God? I'd say that if God wants to damn me to hell eternally for not believing, and in fact despising, in this bullshit...I didn't want any part of that God anyway.

I spent the weekend in South Bend. It was enjoyable, but very sad to see it gone so soon. That may be my last time seeing family until...who knows when. There are pieces of me that tell me to stay here and harness the American Way forever, and the rest tells me that this is something I must do in order to move onto what is next.

Scarlit

"It's not my fault," the stupid girl says as she represses fantasies. White walls, white room. Where's the salvation now? Pathetic. Cronies are what you fucking imagine. Rust clings to the stenchous toilet and she sticks her little palm in. Nothing left but shit. Shit would be a goddamn dream for this stupid cocksucker. Why dream? Why dream when the toilet is your wishing well?

"Suicide" is the exact word. But it's not the word. Suicide is just a wish. Wishes never come true. I mean...look at yourself. You're inedible, inaudible, and intangible. You wished for love and look what you got-look in the toilet, that's what you got.
I am your gateway drug. Your seven dollar freedom. Wishing doesn't come cheap for addicts. The price you pay is more than you'd think.
"All I ever wanted was...for you to...NEED me...," the bitch yells into space. Mascara runs. Tears are building up in her inner cavity. Deep tears.

In the rain...the warm smoky rain...the girl has lost hope. Out of her lungs whistle, "Whenever is convenient to you," into a receiver that is dead on the other line. It's a pity...that you're still here. She is inconvenient to the world. Her existence is spilled red wine on your new white carpet. Her feelings are your panic attack waiting to happen. Even the fact that she's still alive-still taking up space-is a late train, a missed flight. "Tomorrow," the girl denies, "will be better."
She carries an armful of junk. The only things that ever mattered to her are just a bunch of trash. Trash you don't even want the neighborhood rats to live amongst. You are a fucking homeless bum-a bum to the homeless. Quit acting like you care. Tomorrow never comes.

She is a hollow piece of shit. Her best friends are these boots that carry her from pond to pond scanning the murky goo for a lost friend. Her old companion. The one who made her realize that boots do not compensate for a conversation. Melty brown hair seeps over her face. She gives me that stupid look again. She's not really looking for a friend in these swamps. She's looking for something more. Her whole life is a syntax error, so she guessed fixing it would mean covering it. Tossing it like a cigarette butt only to be ground out by a muddy boot heel. Pondering the sludgy pond, vaporized and scant, she waded through the tidal waves, collecting liars in her spoon.

One by one she scooped them up, diesel power fuel.  Placing them, oh so del i cate ly onto (astro) tuelle.

Vibrant green, around his neck, he fucked away her. black. berries.
The antique shit pile in her arms is overbearing. These heels are too high, her persistence is none. She dumps all of it on top of the green ooze and lily pads.

She's started believing in Jesus since that night. Sparkly crucifix clasped to her neck. She's saved.  The skin so salty like sea water. She covers her whole mouth with a left palm, pinching her nostrils tightly together. One step... The rope clinches down hard and her face is hot. This is her underwater adventure.
~~~

This is the sink where sins are washed off. Where fetuses are cleaned with rose oil. Dead mothers lay and dream. The mud seeps down a crumbling hill, and I want to sleep
~~~

She knows what she has done is not wrong.  How could it be? There is no purpose to human life. This was no god that she has soaked in blood. This was so fucking saint, or a father. He didn't love her and that's the price he paid. HE was the only thing that ever mattered to her.
He was a piece of trash.
And she smears the snot all over her bloody arm. I've tried several times to convince her that she is sub-human. That she can no longer hide, because I know the piece of shit that she really is.
She swims here every day. This is her fucking sink. The sink that washes off the day's aggravations. The trash. She murders him in her mind every fucking day- with disregard and indifference.
She drowns everyday in the murky gray- and hopes that tomorrow...well it's not going to fucking happen.
Tomorrow doesn't matter if you can't conquer today.
She is finally at peace-completely-with the idea of not ever being loved.  She looks up and there is rain.  The rain tells her that
IT'S ALL GONNA BE ALLRIGHT
and the silver, cold protrudes her veins.
Free.
~~

They ate her blackberries together. They hustled through the alley with the leaves as companions. Just the two of them. And they tried so hard. Fingering  her scrumptious blackberries. They were tiny, and freshly picked, but unripe. Not a moment to waste, they must be devoured quickly and precisely. They shoved them in so fast they were heaving as dogs do when they eat the green, green grass that they love so much.
At church, she sang hymns of God and his precious Lamb, knowing the entire time that her day would come. All of the children hammered nails into the wood to gain the knowledge of the tree- to feed the birds, so they'd know that they were people too.

I never knew what she was running from. But I'd run too if I were her. I'd try to be someone else, as she is.
~~~

The man was on a mission. He loved the carbon dioxide trash. It seemed so pure.  The oil of that bus was gaining on him, and he was losing.  Soon enough, he'd give them what they fucking wanted. His teeth were rotten like banana peels.  Brown and soft.
He only hoped for one. Once he had it, he could die with satisfaction in his shell of a soul. It was a never ending man vs. man. But if a man has no eyes, or passion...is he still a man?
The other man was sub-human, waiting for the perfect day to kick and scream like a little fucking baby.
He consumed the entire chunk of meat with his bare hands, carnivorous and satisfied, he continued to sanctify the gauntly gluttonous creature inside, desensitized to its supplicating.
IF YOU ACT LIKE A BABY, YOU'LL BE TREATED LIKE A BABY.
~~~

He kisses her feet because she is his goddess. They are callused and torn from the running. Her body is paralyzed by precious desires. She wants what she used to have...the freedom, I mean. The sticky, scarlet paint that covered her body.
She flinches and continues to stare blankly into space.  His clammy fingers aggravatingly protrude her.  He can see the disdain she has for him right now in her bitter eyes, and he wants her disgust to go away; he won't stop until she gives in.
She aborted reality with pain.
HIS precious desires lie within her aching body. The body that has a drowning sensation inside of it. It kicks her inner tissue.
He wants that last drop of flavor to melt on his tongue. These calluses don't soothe his urge. HE IS cutting around it trying not to slip.
And he is conscious of the hot, trickling juices. They awaken him to a world that he loves so. The mistakes are covered with staples and burlap.
One at a time, so each tear is stapled away.
Pulled back inside, for she is strong.
He doesn't hear the screaming or the beating heart.
~~~

He's torn them off like limbs.
He trims them.
Now she can never fucking get away.
Even if she could, would she?
She never flew away before. Never dared expand those wings. It's a pity, pithy as it may sound.

~~~
I'm safe under the covers where it's warm. She's safe here. She wishes to come out, but the wooden floor will transfer the ice cold to her dry toes.
Another dilemma-the blankets are piled up and she can't get out.
Would she if she could?
Tongue in cheek. Smiling.
Her eyes are crusted shut.
"How long have I been asleep?"
It's been days.
The irritation covering her face is just one more annoyance that those men begat her.  The pink and red color of conjunctivitis dominates once hazel eyes.  The matter is only made worse by her fingertips rubbing it until the infection thoroughly diminishes any sign of beauty on her countenance.
The cold shards of glass are piercing her skin.  She's bound in wires, or are the wires bound in her? It's hard to tell.  She spouted words as delicately placed as lace, "
He's been trying to program her like she were his robot or something. She was fed false pretenses and made to wear a plastic smile.  The wires and chords were assembled ingeniously, twisting through as her cervex with information, exiting like a larynx.  Her eyes her made from glass.  The stitches on her bandages were ejecting themselves with a vengeance.

~~~
She meanders through a parking lot with a glass of ice jingling like bells. The tracks are so far away, leading from behind, each one is something old, something passed that she can't help but to gaze back upon.

His iron-worked hair was cut in a sloppy asymmetrical trim. The thick, wavy side held his sanity in its split ends, and the rest...well, it held the past. The keyboard click, click, clicked and this was his only form of communication because he's grown gaunt and pale from avoiding actual conversation. He never wanted this. He wants to float away from the chains of this clump growing from his scalp. It is exasperating to work your way through it, and he is oblivious to your trying. So just don't. He is cold and hypnotized by the hum of the computer monitor, and its neon shots of pornography. The stalker-esque (piece of shit) girl peers into his window, sighing with a feeling of guilt in the pit of her stomach. She'll never help him. He can't even see her.

They laid spooning, with soft purrlike breaths, her dorsal region in tergiversation with his pelvis. They made note of one another's breathing patterns, silently compromising so that their chests expanded in unison.

In a few hours, it would all be over.

~~~
A redolence of obstinacy closed in as the two entered into a metal, trapezoid-shaped contraption. She was snug under his arm, his shield, or blanket if I may, from the perverts lurking about. I watched as he helped her aboard with a peculiar sense of protectiveness, which I'd never seen in someone like himself. The girlchild was shaking in her boots and the slippery vinyl plating on them rubbed together to make a relaxing buzz.

I felt threatened by that noise. She was trying to hypnotize me, and I did that bitch right. I struggled for a second, but finally pried that pack from out of her tiny hand, just to find a puddle of seedy, damson fluid.

2003-2005