As I listened to him rattle on, I couldn’t help to want to call him out on his several inaccuracies; on the countless opportunities that I watched him squander day in and day out. A nagging filibuster of could be and what was. At this point, even his surroundings matched the subtle hints in his voice; betrayed the idea that he was a step below not fixing it if it isn’t broken. The napkins curled up onto themselves quietly on the floor, but the socks grew cold to him and some of the blinds at the window even turned their backs at the fact: if it doesn’t bother him, why change it?
Of course this was my lifestyle too. If I had issue with such self-apathy I would have demanded he clean the dishes days ago, but then he would have to call me out on my bullshit too. Let me know how I’ve been perfectly content to sleep with a ghost every night; the one who assures me that she isn’t there to assure me. Not because I’m traveling the road less taken. Real salty motherfuckers take that road, and people follow them to heaven and hell, or so I’ve been told. No, it’s because I took the road less looked up to; and as humbling an experience as any other may be it sure doesn’t provide for many campfire stories. She's a sweetheart when I make her that way.
Abandonment is something we’ve come to cultivate. We’ll choke down the preachings if only to live in theory for just one more day. Two jacks leaning on each other in the wake of a fallen card pyramid and we do what we can to keep on staring down; because once we get a little eye contact, we’re dropping just like the rest of them.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Fridge
His back began to hurt after a while and the cramped area was beginning to bother him. Mike had sat in there, knees pressed firmly into his chest for nearly half an hour. He desperately wanted to uncross his legs, as there scraping against each other was starting to irritate him; but there simply was not enough space to finish that. He tapped his toes to a beat on the wall before him, though he barely felt any heat generate from that.
“Should have worn some fucking socks.”
Only for a little while could he justify his actions through positive thinking. How sitting inside this refrigerator had supplied him with untold knowledge that may serve him well at a later date. Such as the light bulb: It was certainly turned off at the moment, so he had no worries about running up a ridiculous electric bill thanks to any sort of faulty wiring on the part of the manufacturer. He also had a deep understanding of just how space he was working with. Why it managed to fit the whole of his body with just minimal cramping. Say a week from now, his roommate was to die of unknown causes; and at the very moment there would be a police officer walking door to door for random inspections. He could stuff the body inside the refrigerator and save himself an awkward situation of suspected murder.
Of course, it made no sense that an officer would walk from door to door inspecting houses. That would be an invasion of privacy, and Mike was certain that he was protected from those kinds of situations. And even if the officer was allowed to come in and have a look, the refrigerator is an awful place to stuff a body into. Even if it was not under suspicion, one would like a sandwich and they are not going to find any ham and cheese on the counters.
This all only made sense to him while he was not considering the fact that he was still sitting inside a refrigerator, but it did not last long. Acute darkness and fairly limited space can only be lasted for so long by the undisciplined. Though he opened the fridge a creak to let in some air, suddenly the oxygen was feeling so shallow; and the heat that snuck in and ran its invisible digits down his arm invited escape. Plus, his elbows were starting to make cracking sounds. That always scared him for some reason.
He stuck out one arm and shielded his eyes from unfiltered light with the other. It felt relieving to finally stretch his legs out again. Left foot. Right foot. They both gripped firmly onto the tile. The door was kept open while he sat there and breathed the fresh air. He finally stepped out and turned to stare at his former cell. Was he free from its bondage or had it just released him into a larger prison, he wondered. Of course, he’s no longer confined in its tiny spaces; but he’s also back to the problem he found himself facing in the first place. The fridge is empty.
“Should have worn some fucking socks.”
Only for a little while could he justify his actions through positive thinking. How sitting inside this refrigerator had supplied him with untold knowledge that may serve him well at a later date. Such as the light bulb: It was certainly turned off at the moment, so he had no worries about running up a ridiculous electric bill thanks to any sort of faulty wiring on the part of the manufacturer. He also had a deep understanding of just how space he was working with. Why it managed to fit the whole of his body with just minimal cramping. Say a week from now, his roommate was to die of unknown causes; and at the very moment there would be a police officer walking door to door for random inspections. He could stuff the body inside the refrigerator and save himself an awkward situation of suspected murder.
Of course, it made no sense that an officer would walk from door to door inspecting houses. That would be an invasion of privacy, and Mike was certain that he was protected from those kinds of situations. And even if the officer was allowed to come in and have a look, the refrigerator is an awful place to stuff a body into. Even if it was not under suspicion, one would like a sandwich and they are not going to find any ham and cheese on the counters.
This all only made sense to him while he was not considering the fact that he was still sitting inside a refrigerator, but it did not last long. Acute darkness and fairly limited space can only be lasted for so long by the undisciplined. Though he opened the fridge a creak to let in some air, suddenly the oxygen was feeling so shallow; and the heat that snuck in and ran its invisible digits down his arm invited escape. Plus, his elbows were starting to make cracking sounds. That always scared him for some reason.
He stuck out one arm and shielded his eyes from unfiltered light with the other. It felt relieving to finally stretch his legs out again. Left foot. Right foot. They both gripped firmly onto the tile. The door was kept open while he sat there and breathed the fresh air. He finally stepped out and turned to stare at his former cell. Was he free from its bondage or had it just released him into a larger prison, he wondered. Of course, he’s no longer confined in its tiny spaces; but he’s also back to the problem he found himself facing in the first place. The fridge is empty.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Forked-Tongue-in-Cheek
"Is that a snake in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"
Michael's entire body froze in place, heart practically flailing in his chest. His palms were already way past clammy before this interlude even began, it was all they could do to shuffle clumsily into his pockets.
Her eyes were fixed to his.
Every step she took shed an inch from their distance, every dimishing inch caused adrenaline to pump into a body prepared to fall apart at that very instant. Never mind the knot in his throat, he was physically incapable of even mouthing out words.
Why were those eyes looking in so deep?
Had she been following him from the pet store this entire time?
Michael's entire body froze in place, heart practically flailing in his chest. His palms were already way past clammy before this interlude even began, it was all they could do to shuffle clumsily into his pockets.
Her eyes were fixed to his.
Every step she took shed an inch from their distance, every dimishing inch caused adrenaline to pump into a body prepared to fall apart at that very instant. Never mind the knot in his throat, he was physically incapable of even mouthing out words.
Why were those eyes looking in so deep?
Had she been following him from the pet store this entire time?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
H =
She walked in, knowing full well something was wrong. Though she inquired, he could only shake his head.
It was an equation he had perfected; a formula created for the sole purpose of knowing what, or rather who, he was dealing with. It covered it all: from the constants of gender to the complexities of the Myers-Briggs personality types arranged into a set of conditions. With this equation, he was prepared to face all sorts of people that life would send his way; excluding when zero turned up in the denominator.
He looked up for her one last time. She wasn’t there.
It was an equation he had perfected; a formula created for the sole purpose of knowing what, or rather who, he was dealing with. It covered it all: from the constants of gender to the complexities of the Myers-Briggs personality types arranged into a set of conditions. With this equation, he was prepared to face all sorts of people that life would send his way; excluding when zero turned up in the denominator.
He looked up for her one last time. She wasn’t there.
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