The Main Character often wonders if it has lost any of its individuality throughout its life. It fears that it has picked up various persons’ idiosyncrasies and has lost its own in the process, becoming a patchwork of sort.
Hector Juan…that stupid fuck. The way his voice booms across halls because he is completely unaware of his own volume and he can’t hear to begin with because of his time spent in the army, the gunshots and grenades that went off next to his ear. He touched my penis, you know? Or, well, rather gently slapped it and claimed that, “they did that shit in the Army.” I accepted it and accept the absurdity of human behavior. When he speaks his sentences are concise but lead you to believe he was raised in the south side of Compton. He was not. He was from Palo Alto. He came up beside me one day at work and said, “When the rich wage war, the poor die.” I heard what he said, but I don’t think I was paying attention.
He cut me and now he bleeds right through.
The Main Character takes a brief moment to look down at a cigarette package and questions how anyone could smoke, especially in 95-degree weather. The wind blows gently and The Main Character drifts along with it in a parking lot and fragments of something that quite possibly could be nothing drift away as well.
The Main Character must return to its job (contractual obligation). It walks up to the entrance with the paranoia of objective judgment. This is typically the part where The Main Character keeps telling itself:
Projections. Probably even challenges. I wouldn’t even consider them tangible, to a certain extent.
The Main Character feels like it will be okay as long as this “amalgamated manifestation” will offer it support.
They crack a joke. They look at me, expecting a laugh or any response to let them know that I am aware of “humor.” They are easily amused. I am not. So I give them my reluctant laugh that sounds like this: haaaaaaaaaaaa *sucks in air* ssssssssssssssssss. This particular laugh is a strategic way of saying: Yes, I know, I will be your humanoid observer, but please understand that I am here for the experience, not so much your enjoyment. I endure earfuls of shit being shoved to my brain, but they will never realize that I control them remotely with the mute button. Thank you Lenny Carwell. Thank you for this laugh.
He cut me and now he bleeds right through.
The Main Character sometimes likes to get high or drunk or alter its perception anyway it can on irritable days. It likes colorful things. It likes the way a pill is shaped and comes in a variation of shapes and sizes and colors. Birthed from a clay vagina, like all people, The Main Character developed traits from connected pieces of fiction. Some are never true, but everyone is of course molded from a clay vagina, in and out of a House of Junkies, which always leaves broken promises.
Hi. I am an addict forever. I am walking up to this door. Inside this door is a family and a very unhappy life. But I keep coming back. I complain, jesus fuck I complain, but I will always choose this particular door over others. The door looks at me and says, “PASSWORD.” I smile a little and say, “What’s it matter? I will always choose to stay locked out from true happiness.”
The door opens.
She cut me and now she bleeds right through.
And from where is this most feared salutation coming from? Where does its brain revive itself? The Main Character is given an ample amount of opportunities to stop and perceive. How would it make you feel if every “free” second you had was spent unknowingly supporting your own bad habits? Shitty. The Main Character goes home one day as according to its supposed everyday destiny and thinks of people. It wonders if people think of it. It wonders if it’s even possible for these people to think at all.
The Main Character strikes a flame and lights up a cigarette. It then realizes the purposes of its surroundings: the self-immolation of one’s ego, complete—and maybe satisfying—self-destruction.
They cut me and now they bleed right through.
I was staring at the moon, avoiding eye contact with the display of inbred fascism that attempted to light up the sky with an array of colors. Instead the sky coughed and wheezed and silently screamed, begging the moon for help.
The ashes of bodies spread out over the horizon. It was a disease. It was a celebratory epidemic of mass hysteria and confusion, really.
The ashes embody me. They never miss.
Before the night was over I was covered in tongues, assholes, intestines, dried guts, horrible retorts, pleading nostalgia, and missed opportunities.
Someone had told me that every second is a choice, really. It’s all about the mindset you choose. This person would take what seemed to be a negative, and turn it onto a positive.
I guess I’m not too upset about it.
Photo by Creativity103 (Creative Commons)