Caffeine and alcohol and the millions of vitamins and minerals advertised on these supposedly all-natural juice concoctions don't seem to mix well. There are poisons that writhe in the base of my skull and a heaving serpent awakens in the pit of my stomach.
I'm staring(more) at my fingers - they tremble. Cars and conversation and every other trace of the plague of humanity upon this earth, within the air, within the water; I'm sick of it.
Somewhere on this godless planet I imagine there is an old man sitting in a warm and lonely house, conversing with, for the first time, the ghost a boy who hanged himself years ago. I wonder if they find each others' company adequate. If so, I suppose there is, in fact, a testament to the significance of individuals, both in life and in death. But I am a minority in the belief that we get chance to walk the earth again, with thoughts and feelings and a silence that makes up for the lack of a physical form. And so it goes.
A little over a decade ago, on this day, I spoke my last words to the girl I believed (and maybe still believe) to have been the girl of my dreams. Gods, could that term sound worse? Fitting, I suppose.
My hands, my eyes, that weight in the center of my neck, they won't stop moving. The aconite seems to be working.
In just a few more minutes, the other clients in this painfully mediocre cafe will have a body to deal with; and, I hope I will be witnessing their fear and confusion from the other side. I hope. Ironic. (less)
every morning an empty space in our bed
every morning my lonely fingers splayed across cold sheets
every morning too much coffee in the coffee pot
every morning the place you should be like a vise holding me into place
every morning a trembling breath as i check th(more)e news
every morning my goodbye echoing on stark walls
I hate her. She is self centered and demanding. She chides me for locking the door. Nevermind that she had a key she can bring over to use when she wants to get into the house she doesn't live in. Nevermind that it's a safety issue to lock doors. She comes over at dinner time mostly, so she doesn't have to spend money to buy food and can just eat the food my grandmother and I buy. She pushes my grandmother, treats her as if she is stupid, and seems to think the universe revolves around her. Her voice has a strange pitch to it. Any nice things she has to say she keeps to herself, but is sure to share all of the gossip and the criticisms. She is not a team player. When the family gathers together to support each other in times of trouble she hides in her home and only comes out when the coast is clear to pick up the pieces of gossip.
But sometimes I pity her. I can't be sure which came first: the attitude or the Parkinson's. But she is less obnoxious when she can be convinced to take her medicine. She shakes. Constantly. Her feet don't move quite right and she finds it difficult to grip things past the trembling. Muscles in her head and neck quake, causing her head to periodically tilt to the right just enough to be noticeable.
Sometimes I hate her. Sometimes I pity her. I'm waiting for the day I can tolerate her. (less)
The road stretched out before him, the yellow lines whizzing by in a blur as he drove toward the outskirts of the city. He couldn't believe what he was doing. He grinned and laughed to himself- a nervous, trembling wreck with sweaty palms clutching the steering wheel. He shifted(more) in his seat, trying to remove the back of his damp shirt from his skin, and reached over to change the playlist on his mp3 player.
His boss was probably calling him now, wondering why he hadn't shown up for the big presentation. His phone lay in the trunk, shoved between half of his wardrobe, some cash and a few toiletries in a dingy brown duffle bag. Screw work! Screw cell phones and business lunches and stuffy corporate offices with their stupid politics and ugly cubicles. Today was the day that Michael Jonathan Black was going to climb mountains! He only prayed she would have the guts to come along with him.(less)
Do you ever think about the last year of your life? Sometimes I imagine an old man looking back on the decision I am making right now, and regretting the choices I am making. That scares the hell out of me.
I know that there isn't a gran(more)d plan, and I almost envy the young mind that thinks there is. The moments of complete engagement with life, when you accept it for what it really is, are worth the disillusionment - but you are giving up a pretty good story. I miss my dead Nan, and I want to believe I will hug her again. I want everything to have a happy ending, but there are to many suicides, genocides, and chasing highs for this to be so. The image on an addict friend sitting lifeless with belt around his arm is too sobering to forget.
So what do I do with this choice of mine? What choice does that old man in my head want me to make? Cliches like "live for today" or "just do what makes you happy" are nice and everything, but they don't really make any decisions. They don't tell me how to trade this iPod for integrity, or this reliable monthly salary for excitement. If you always live for today you will die of starvation.
So I set me alarm for work, save a little bit of money, and continue to try and figure this out. Unfortunately, this is only step 6,094 of 10,000. (less)
The ground was rust red beneath his feet, and the sky an inky black wrapped in the light of stars and bright Magellanic clouds, while the planetary rings loomed large in their erratic orbit and the violet aurora played across his upturned face.
(more) This was the way of the world when Cassius Aquinas came to the City of Angels.
The city was Entropos, but he would never know that. He would only know that its gates were large and its walls tall and jagged and pulsating with an alien light that burned his eyes even when they were shut. The sentinels on either side of the entrance cast their eyes downward when he passed, their massive stone faces curled in perpetual expressions of discontent, cracked from many years of standing under the harsh interstellar light. They were built of red stone, and when they moved it was as mountains crumbling to the ground.
He had barely made it three steps into the interior before he was accosted on all sides by creatures - for there was no other name for them; he could not call them human - with arms full of gold and hanging vines, their invisible or too-toothy mouths crying words he could not think to understand. Shopkeepers, he thought, peddling their wares to the tourists.
He was a tourist. It was a strange thought.
It was only after he had extracted himself from the mob and squeezed into an alleyway where the air was thick and hot when he felt himself trembling, felt his breath catch in his chest and his knees weaken. Insects with too-geometric carapaces scuttled over his feet, and the air hummed with some unintelligible voice that sounded of song.
That, in brief, was how Cassius found himself in Entropos, the City of Angels. (less)
My hands tremble as I make a feeble attempt to finish the Double Windsor around my neck. I can't believe she said yes. Honestly, I didn't think she would. I'm getting ready two hours early. I try to calm my anxious nerves, but to no avail.
(more) It took me twenty minutes to clean and dress myself. Now I have to sit in the nervous air that I create. My heart has not slowed since I asked her. Part of me wants to call her and say I'm sick, just so that I don't have the ability to screw it up. My noble half denies the temptation and the bastard lets me sit here: trembling.
I'm in the car on the way to her house. I'm not sure how I will be able to walk when I get to her driveway. I can see it ahead. My hand trembles as I flip the turn signal. I pull into the driveway.
As I approach the door, I am near faint. My breath quickens as my hand pushes the door bell. She opens the door.
Like an earthquake, the trembling racks my body.
I've never seen someone so gorgeous. My voice sounds like I'm on a train as I say:
"H-Hey. Y-y-you look great!"
She is so composed, which makes me even more nervous. She says thanks, then something happens.
She grabs my hand. Everything stops. The erratic nerves; the trembling. I am suddenly serene. Her touch permeates throughout my body. It fills me; solidifies me.
The man sat down and began trembling, and began to curse under his breath, and then commenced to stomping his feet against the floorboards making the silverware on the table and the china in the cupboard in the corner rattle and clink, to the point where they threatened to(more) fall to different surfaces. The others looked at each other and one of them spoke to the man.
‘Damn it Lorn, now quit that,’ the man said.
Lorn continued and then the man walked over to him and put his hand on his shoulder and said, ‘shut up! Goddamn it shut the hell up.’
The man looked up at some of the others as if looking for their help and approval. One man looked to the person next to him and then back at Lorn and closed his eyes and then opened them and said, ‘Lorn please.’
‘What’s he saying,’ said the man who had last addressed Lorn.
They all paused and tried to make out words from all the babbling.
‘Cornafl helfnierrrr, ughnnn....’cursed the trembling man.
‘Don’t make a goddamn bit ah sense,’ said the man who had grabbed Lorn’s shoulder.
From the room below came a series of loud thuds against the floor in response and in frustration to the commotion.
‘Lorn, shut the hell up, they can hear you down there,’ said someone.
Lorn continued, and the man who had just spoken walked to the door, yanked it open, and exited, slamming the door. They heard him walk down the hall and descend the stairs. They could hear voices from below. It was then that Lorn ceased his racket. Through the floor came the sound of a gun shot. Lorn looked up and smiled at the others and said, I thought we d never(less)